Mists on the Mountains
by Koboldlord
Summary: Hammel Greymist has returned home after several years of fighting. Yet Skyrim isn't the same as he remembers. For one thing there's the civil war brewing, not to mention the dragons returning... Part original content, part novelization. Male Nord Dragonborn, Contains main, civil war and Companions quest-line. Rated for gore, violence/torture mild sexual content and profanity.
1. Returning Home

AN: I apologize for the quality of these early chapters. I pick up a beta later and, in general, imporve. I will go back and fix them later. Right now the focus is on writting new content. Thank you.

**Chapter 1**

**Returning Home.**

"_Lo, though I wander Tamriel fair, slay monsters, loot dungeons and save maidens, there is one quest I love more than any other. Returning home. There's nothing quite like coming back to that special someone, hanging your helmet over the fire and sitting down at that nice bowl of warm stew. If only all homes were as welcoming as mine."-Tharafin Odmar, Dunmer adventurer of some renown and later count of Bruma. Quote circa 4E 5_

A spray of chilled water slammed into Hammel Greymist's face as the cart's wheel ploughed on through the puddle of melted ice. As if that wasn't bad enough, the prison cart followed said puddle with a sharp drop, bouncing its rickety wooden frame. Smacking his head against the bench, Hammel cursed.

It was bad enough he'd been grabbed by the Imperial Legion while crossing back into Skyrim, but now he was cold, damp and sore. He hadn't had time to even speak his name. One moment he'd blundered into a conflict between Imperial Legionaries and these Stormcloaks he'd heard a little of, the next he'd been struck in the back of the head. He'd woken up here, his things gone and hands bound, proving the immortal saying that things can always get worse.

_At least I'm back in Skyrim._

Skyrim. It was a funny thing, being back in his homeland after so long. The Nord had spent so much time in Elsweyr, where the rolling sands and ancient cities were so different from his birthplace, he'd almost forgotten what it looked like. The ache in his heart for the looming mountains, wide-open tundras and massive pine forests never left him. Often at night, laying in his bed roll gazing at unfamiliar constellations, he'd dream of Skyrim.

It was just as beautiful as he remembered, from the snow covered mountains to the frozen air cooling in his lungs. At least if he died, he would be home.

"Hey, you're awake." The voice was thick and laced with a strong Nordic accent. Hammel lifted his head wearily, his gaze falling across the features of the man across from him. Like Hammel, this fellow was a nord, his face covered in grime and scars. Unlike Hammel, his hair was shoulder length and blond, a beard of the same shade sat proudly on his chin. He was dressed in the armour of the Stormcloaks, his hands bound with thick rope. Judging from the bloody stainds the rebel had tried to rub his wrists free of the bonds, with no luck. Hammel felt the thickness of the makeshift cuffs around his own wrists. Nothing short of a blade would remove them.

Next to the Stormcloak sat an exotic looking elf woman, altmer if Hammel had to wager a guess. Her hair was midnight black, her eyes golden orbs. Streaked across her face was war paint, more traditional for nordic raiders than high elves. However, like the Stormcloak, she was dressed in the same blue tunic and chainmail combanation all rebels seemed to favour.

"Hey," the blond Stormcloak continued, "You were trying to cross the border right? You aren't one of us." He nodded his head at the woman next to him, "You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman."

"Shut up Ralof," the elf hissed, "Don't tell him anything." A gust of wind coated her midnight locks with flecks of snow, but did nothing for her ice-cold expression.

"What does it matter Lianna?" The man responded casually, "He's not one of them." The Elf snorted, but didn't argue. As Hammel's vision began to clear, he noticed the contact between the elf and Ralof's hands, lovers perhaps? "So, what's your story, friend?"

The cart's wheels continued bouncing, scattering the snow and water strewn across the path before it; leading the prisoners every closer to their final destination.

Hammel Greymist had a story, but didn't particularly feel like giving it to this Ralof, a total stranger. "Wrong place, wrong time." His words were rough, burrowing up through his throat like a pickaxe on granite. It had been so long since he'd heard his own voice; it sounded odd to him.

"Ah, you're like the thief." Ralof nodded his head down towards the end of the cart. Turning his own head, Hammel realized he shared the cart with three others. One was a scrawny nord dressed in rags, obviously the thief. Next to him sat an orc, dressed in the robes of a mage while wearing several visible rings. Hammel's trained eye noticed the Orc's fingers were bound in a very specific manner designed to prevent spell-casting. No doubt several other measures were firmly in place to prevent him from throwing several fireballs. Lastly, there was another Stormcloak, clad in a fur-lined cape rather than a simple tunic. His mouth may have been gagged, but nothing covered pure hatred burning out of his eyes towards the Legionnaire cart driver.

"Blasted Stormcloaks," the thief muttered, "Skyrim was fine until you started your little war. The Empire was nice and lazy." Shaking his head sadly, he signed. "I could have been on that horse and halfway to Hammerfell by now. Instead of a rich payday and warm bed, I'm stuck here with you." Glancing across at the gagged Stormcloak, the thief asked casually, "Who's this anyhow?"

"Watch your tongue," Ralof commanded. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhlem and true High King."

The High Elf, Lianna, Hammel believed her name was, inclined her head towards the bound Jarl, murmuring, "Talos' blessings, Jarl Ulfric."

"Shut it back there!" The driver ordered sharply. Snapping the reins, the soldier increased the horse's pace.

At the mention of Ulfric's name, the thief turned ghostly pale. "Wait, if that's Ulfric, then where are we headed?" Glancing about rapidly, he look for a quick exit, rubbing his bonds futilely against the wooden bench.

"I don't know where exactly we're headed, but Sovngarde awaits." Ralof's words were casual, but filled with sorrow. Next to him, the Elf had closed her eyes and bowed her head muttered words under her breath in a solemn tone.

"Sovngarde..." the thief muttered, clearly terrified with the prospect of facing the afterlife. "No, no, no, no!" He looked across at Hammel, blinking rapidly to hold back quickly forming tears, "This isn't right! We aren't rebels! We don't deserve to die!"

"Quiet," the Orc growled. "Your complaining is interrupting my final moments of peace. Silence yourself, before I silence you." The mage's words had the desired effect, shutting the thief's mouth more effectively than a steel trap.

The cart's wheels protested loudly as it turned yet another bend, slamming Hammel, and its other occupants, against the bench. Thick stone walls loomed in the distance, the figures of guards barely visible atop them. Several flags flew from the quartet of towers evenly placed around the village's exterior. Imperial ones, judging from the color scheme.

"Hey," Ralof asked the scrawny rogue, "Where are you from, horse-thief?"

The panicking man blinked. "What?"

Smiling warmly he stated, "A nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"Rorikstead." The thief's words were so soft, Hammel strained his ears to hear them, "I'm from Rorikstead."

"Summerset Isle," Lianna stated crisply, "Though, my true home is Riverwood."

"Riverwood," Ralof murmured, closing his eyes, "I can smell the pines now."

"Dragontail mountains," the Orc said simply, his gruff voice laced with longing. "It was oblivion, but it was home."

"And what of you, brother Nord?" Ralof enquired while the cart rolled under the the town's gateway, a gateway they would never pass again. "Where is your home?"

Images flashed before Hammel's eyes, wars, drinks, exotic women, but nothing of substance. He'd had a birthplace, had a family once, but now... He had nothing. "I was born in Solitude." The images were hard to drag up, having been thoroughly buried in the back of his mind for so many years. "But...it's been so long."

"Hey," Ralof encouraged, "I understand. At least we're all going to the same place right?" He glanced around the village, noticing a trio of altmer in dark robes, speaking with a distinguished looking Imperial. "Look, it's general Tullius and his pet hunters." Ralof spat vehemently, "Bloody Thalmor, figures they'd have something to do with this."

Hammel expected some kind of outburst from Lianna, but she looked just as furious as Ralof. "So, how'd you get on the wrong side of your people?" The Nord's attempt to make conversation didn't garner quite the response he expected.

"They aren't my people! I'm as nord as you or Ralof!" She spat out furiously, displaying the war paint smeared across her face like a badge of honour.

Shrugging his shoulders, the man didn't respond. A hand gesture would be more appropriate, but his were bound at the moment. The prisoners sat in silence for a moment, the cart's wheels squeaking loudly, axles groaning in agony. "Ah, Helgen," Ralof murmured, glancing around at the village now surrounding both waggons. "I used to be sweet on a girl here once." Lianna coughed loudly and Ralof smiled at her. "Before I met you, of course." The elf returned the smile warmly, rubbing her bound hands against the blond Stormcloak's own.

"It's good we're together in the end." Her words were serious, yet without regret.

"Always so full of hope," Ralof laughed, ignoring the driver's order to quiet down. He sniffed the air once, "Ah, Juniper berries, I wonder if Thalga is still making that mead I loved. She always put just the right amount. Too many berries can dilute the flavor, too few and that little sharp taste isn't added. Gods I miss it..." Voice trailing off, the Stormcloak became quite, as if realizing he'd never taste mead, or any other drink, again.

Ralof glanced up at one of the towers after a moment, his eyes taking in the stonework without comment, "Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls always made me feel so safe." He snorted a little, punctuated oddly by the sudden stop of the cart. Hammel glanced around, while the second wagon pulled up against the wall adjacent to his. There was nowhere to run.

"Why are we stopping?" The thief asked, breaking momentarily from his frantic prayers to the Divines.

"Why do you think?" Lianna spat out, eyeing the thief with contempt.

"Its the end of the line." Ralof's words were kinder in tone, if not in intent. "A one way journey to Sovngarde."

"No!" The thief howled, throwing himself against the wooden sides of the cart. "You can't do this! I'm not a rebel!" He screamed at everyone within earshot. His protests were utterly ignored by the guards, who went about their tasks with bored expressions.

"Face your death with some courage, thief." Ralof's reply was cold and firm, as unyielding as Skyrim itself.

"Everyone out!" The cart driver ordered firmly while cart's ramp dropped. Glancing at the wagon next to him, Hammel observing its blue armoured occupants as they climbed down, heads held high with quiet pride. The Orc disembarked without a word, standing just as proud as the Stormcloaks around him. Ulfric looked like the leader he was, despite his gag and bindings his stance spoke of power and honour.

The horse-thief on the other hand, wet himself in sheer terror as he stumbled down the ramp, teeth chattering. Tracing their way through the grime on his cheeks, the thief's tears of fear made the journey down his face. The dampness on his pants spread a little, but the thief remained still standing as his feet slapped muddy ground.

Hammel followed suit, shoulders slumped slightly. His watching gaze took it all in. The entire village of Helgen seemed to surround the square where the prisoners stood. People lined the numerous balconies and porches, some smiling, others crying openly; yet all were oddly silent. Before them, standing erect like a proud soldier, was the central watchtower, soaring over the keep, other four towers and every other part of the village. An Imperial banner flapped triumphantly in the wind, glaring down at the Stormcloak prisoners.

But none of this kept the attention of Hammel Greymist. His eyes instead focused squarely on a simple stone block, stained with fresh blood, sitting contentedly in the middle of the village square. In front of the block was a bucket full of straw and standing beside it was a masked executioner. The hooded agent of death stood quiet as death itself, looking tall as a giant.

Six soldiers armed with pikes covered the path the carts had entered by. Four additional archers stood at the path's bend, bows ready. Several other legionaries milled about, trying to look like they were doing their jobs rather than secretly observing the execution. Standing directly on the path before the block was a nord legionary and a short, female Imperial. The armour she wore, marked her as a captain, the barking tone in her voice confirmed Hammel's suspicions.

The prisoners were herded into a semi-circle, all gazing towards that simple stone block, imaging how their necks would feel stretched across it.

General Tullius strode brazenly towards Ulfric, a Thalmor agent at either side. Looking Ulfric up and down, Tullius crisply stated, "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the voice to murder his king and usurp his throne!" Tullius' accusation clearly angered Ulfric, who growled furiously from behind his gag. "You started this war! Now we're going to finish it, by putting you down!" Turning towards the stern faced woman, Tullius commanded in a much softer voice, "Carry on, Captain."

Pounding a fist against her breastplate in salute, the captain responded, " Yes, general." Looking back over the gathered rebels, she addressed them coldly. "Now, when we call your name, step towards the block!"

Next to her, the legion clerk looked down at his notes, "Ulfric Stormcloak."

The leader of the rebellion stalked towards the block, standing in the crowd of prisoners forming before it. "It's been an honour, Jarl Ulfric," Ralof muttered, eyes bowed.

"Talos' blessing be upon you, my Jarl," Lianna murmured, eyes shut and head bowed in respect. Hammel heard the other Stormcloaks give various blessings, some of the villagers looking overcome with grief.

"Lokir of Rorikstead," the soldier continued, looking directly at the horse-thief. Courage failed the thief who bolted for the city gates, blasting past the six pikemen. He howled something about freedom and making it out alive.

"Archers! Take him!" The captain snarled, jabbing an armoured hand towards the fleeing rogue. The bowmen took aim and released a flight of arrows in one smooth motion. Four deadly arrows penetrated the unarmoured thief's back, sticking out of his back like a macabre pin-cushion. With a gargle, Lokir crumpled, spending his final seconds in a rapidly expanding puddle of blood. "Anyone else feel like running?" The captain threatened, shooting a warning glare at the gathered prisoners. No one did.

"Wait," The soldier with the logbook stated, looking directly at Hammel, "Step forward please." For a split second, Hammel considered running too, but the images of Lokir the horse-thief, arrows sticking out of him in all directions, came to mind, crushing that idea to dust. Hammel's wild unkempt beard and rough clothe shirt would offer no protection against those razor-sharp points. His bare feet crushing snow and mud underneath, the Nord advanced, standing before the clerk. "Who are you?"

"Hammel Greymist," Hammel answered, his voice returning to him. "From Solitude, served in the Imperial Legion most of my life, recently in Elsweyr, fighting the bandit army there. Returned home to Skyrim now, for a much-needed rest." Smiling a little under the rough growth of his beard, the Nord stated, "My Imperial Legion service number, 829730."

Baffled, the clerk glanced across to his captain. "What should we do? He isn't on the list and that's a valid serial number."

The captain looked Hammel up and down, appraising him for a moment before making her decision. "Hang the list. He goes to the block."

That wasn't the response Hammel had been hoping for.

"You bastards!" He roared, lunging for the captain, fully intending to bludgeon her to death with his bound hands. Dashing forward, three of the pikemen grabbed his arms, intercepting him before he'd made half a step. Despite his best efforts the three legionaries managed to hold the struggling Nord back. "I shed my blood for the empire!" Hammel screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "Now you throw me aside without a thought?"

"Add him to the others," the captain ordered, waving her hand towards the semi-circle of captured rebels. She pointedly ignored Hammel's failed attempts to break away from the grip of the soldiers. Turning towards a woman in simple robes, the short woman stated, "Give them their last rites."

The priest of Arkay on duty began the approved ritual for fallen criminals, holding her hands outward in a simple blessing. "As we commit your souls to Aetherius, may the Eight bless you and have mercy on..."

"Oh for the love of Talos, shut up already and just get on with it!" A dark-haired male Stormcloak shouted, shoving his way past the other rebels.

The priestess stopped abruptly, apparently shocked to hear both the name Talos and to be interrupted in the middle of her ritual. Standing there awkwardly, the priestess froze, looking oddly comical. "As you wish," the captain snapped. Waving him forward with a vicious smile she continued, "Glad you volunteered to go first."

The Nord man walked forward, head held high despite his bonds, "Good, I haven't got all day." Kneeling at the executioner's block without a fight, the rebel laid his neck across it. Even as the captain dropped her armoured boot on his back, pinning him in place, the Stormcloak was defiant, "My ancestors are smiling at me Imperial. Can you say the same?"

The executioner raised his axe, then dropped it in one fluid motion. It was a clean cut. In a spray of blood it was over. The head fell into the waiting basket and the corpse went limp. Kicking the body over, the captain walked forward, amid the calls of the villagers.

"You Imperial bastards!"

"We demand justice!"

"Kill another!"

"As brave in death as he was in life," Ralof murmured softly, his eyes taking in the fallen Stormcloak's headless corpse, "You have entered the halls of Sovngarde."

Jabbing her finger at Hammel the captain ordered simply, "Him."

The trio of legionaries holding Hammel shoved him forward, hands resting on the hilts of their swords, no doubt expecting some resistance. The Nord approached the block without a fight, without a word. Kneeling at the stone, his neck wet with the warm blood of the previous nord to die upon it, Hammel waited for the axe. It was an oddly serene moment.

Then he heard the roar.

It came echoing down from the mountains in the distance. It sounded almost like a Sabre Cat only richer, deeper and deadlier. "What was that?" The clerk asked cautiously, wrapping his free hand around the handle of his sword.

"Nothing, just a bear." The captain gestured authoritatively at the executioner, "Continue."

"That's the biggest bear I've ever heard," Lianna muttered casually, her expression unreadable.

The Orc however, suddenly seemed very nervous, yellow eyes darting from side to side, his head beginning to shrink back inside his battered mage robes. The dirty fur collar looked like it had swallowed his head whole. "That's no bear," he murmured fearfully.

All of this hardly mattered to Hammel as the executioner drew closer, axe blade gleaming with a deadly light. Shifting his stance a touch, the Nord gazed up at Skyrim's clear sky; wanting it to be the last thing he saw before the end. The clouds had rolled away, revealing the crisp morning for miles around Helgen. With the sky so clear the Nord was able to see what he did. His eyes may have been open but he couldn't believe what they beheld.

A dragon.

_A dragon, in Skyrim? A living dragon? I'm going crazy._

Then, the beast roared and everyone saw it. "What in Oblivion is that?" A guard screamed in panic.

"Dragon!" The priestess howled, throwing a ward spell around her like would make a noticeable difference.

Flying forward with a mighty roar, the dragon landed on top of the watch tower with shuddering force, shaking the foundations of the village. More importantly, the shock-wave caused by the ancient monster's impact knocked the executioner clean off his feet. He'd been so absorbed in the process of his work that he hadn't noticed the monster until it was too late. Even as the executioner fell, losing his axe in the process, the dragon belted out a large gulf of flame.

People were screaming and running in every direction, buildings were burning all around them while the captain gave a failed attempt to organize the soldiers. Most simply fled, abandoning their posts without a second thought.

Hammel tried to rise, but the dragon howled again, beating his wings furiously against the tower. The resulting gust of wind smashed Hammel's unprotected head into the unyielding stone, dazing him momentarily. "Sacred Talos!" He snarled, trying to fight against the pain as his world spun around him. Bound hands clutched tightly to the block, the former legionary tried to focus even as his vision faded in and out. Someone grabbed his shoulder, yanking him to his feet.

"Come friend! We need to make it to the tower!" His voice was harsh and deep, far deeper than any nord's. Hammel's vision returned in time to find himself staring into the eyes of the orc mage. Somehow in all the carnage he'd managed to get his hands free. "Run! Go!"

Hammel didn't need any more encouragement. His steps were shaky, but the dragon flying overhead burning soldier and building alike proved an incredible motivator. Stumbling over the burning corpse of a fallen legionnaire, Hammel glanced up to see Ralof holding open a door to one of the towers. Wasting no time, the Nord and the Orc sprinted across the open space of the village square, pounding up the three steps leading into the tower. Ralof slammed it shut as they blasted past, nearly catching the tail-end of the mage's robes. Outside the tower, roars of the dragon and the shouting from villagers and soldiers alike could still be heard.

The very tower shook with the fury of dragon flames, the candles inside flickering as they wobbled. Only a lucky few had made it to the apparent safety of the tower, one of them badly wounded. The injured woman groaned in pain while a second Stormcloak did his best to stem the bleeding, whispering encouragements in her ear.

After having his bindings removed, Ulfric Stormcloak tore the gag free from his mouth. Apparently the Jarl of Windhelm was one of the survivors.

"What was that?" Lianna asked in a panicked tone, her hands still bound and her forehead caked in blood. "Could the ancient legends be true?"

"Legends don't burn down villages." Ulfric's words hung in the air, nicely punctuated by another roar from the dragon. "We need to move, now!" He commanded, looking around at his gathered followers.

"We can't stay here." Hammel agreed, nodding towards the door. " That dragon'll burn down this tower, with us inside it!."

"Raina is in no condition to be moved!" The makeshift healer shouted, "We can't leave her behind!" The red-haired female Stormcloak howled in pain at the other rebel's treatment, almost as if to emphasize the point.

"I will carry her." Every eye turned to look at the Orc in stupefied astonishment, almost forgetting his presence. "I assume that is satisfactory?"

"Absolutely," Ralof stated for the party. Glancing over at Hammel he shouted, "Come on, up the stairs, the others will follow!"

Hammel went into soldier mode, ignoring all distractions as his bare feet pounded up the cold stone steps.

_First, get to the top of the tower, survey the scene and find a way out. _

Unfortunately for Hammel Greymist, a certain dragon had other ideas.

The second floor was in sight when the flames finally found a way through the ancient stone. Hammel fell back, his skin almost aflame from the extreme heat as the roaring inferno singed the tower's entire upper floor. Partially collapsing, falling stone barricaded the rest of the flight, leaving only a ragged hole left by the rampaging dragon.

Glancing through it, Hammel noticed the adjacent house's roof had caved in. The home was blazing, thatched roof alight and wooden structure burning away, but it still looked sturdy enough for the time being. If nothing else, it would allow him to bypass the rubble blocking his escape to Helgen's keep.

_The keep might not be the safest place to be at the moment, with the Imperials likely to attack first and question later, but it was sturdy enough to survive several volleys of dragon fire. This tower wouldn't._

Despite the obvious logic of the decision, Hammel found it difficult to convince himself to leap from the tower onto the second floor of the burning house. "You're going to have to jump it!" Ralof shouted, looking down at the flaming abode. "It's the only way out."

"What about you?" Hammel didn't really know Ralof, but the Stormcloak hadn't tried to kill him yet, that made him an ally of sorts.

Ralof shook his head, "I'm waiting for my wife, I'll catch up. Go!"

His curiosity about the elf satisfied for now, Hammel swallowed once then took a flying leap.

It was a curious feeling, jumping with his hands bound. The midair journey felt like an eternity but in reality it was no long than two seconds. Hammel's bare feet smacked into the wooden floor of the house with a painful but satisfying thud. The heat around him was impressive and the smoke smothering.

Hacking painfully to clear his lungs, the Nord staggered through the burning home, past a bed, now alight, and over a fallen cupboard. A hole in the second floor proved a fine passage for getting down. Hammel was so desperate to get off the flaming second floor he didn't bother looking down first; he simply jumped. A table covered in cups and ugly dinnerware broke his fall. Several plates shattered, slicing his feet, ankles and arms. Cursing in pain, Hammel rolled off the table, knocking a few hideous mugs over in the process. Getting to his feet, the prisoner scrambled for the door.

Said door was hanging on one hinge, halfway between standing and falling. Charging at it with all his might, Hammel's shoulder proved adequate for the task at hand. Flying off its hinges, the door exploded outward, exposing a village street. The dragon flew by overhead, engulfing a pair of archers with a wave of flame. The duo almost disintegrated under the intense heat, bursting into flames before Hammel's very eyes.

As the dragon moved on, the Nord darted out of the house into the open. Across his path, the clerk had ditched his logbook for a sword, crouching behind some rubble while waving a child over. "Come on boy, you're doing great!" The miniature villager put an extra hop in his step when the dragon screamed again. Diving for safety, the young boy made it to cover, narrowly dodging a wall of fire.

Nodding back at an old legionnaire behind him, the nord legionary stated, "Take care of the boy! I've got to get to the keep and join the defense!"

"Gods guide you Hadvar!" The old soldier shouted, shielding the child with his armored body.

The clerk, Hadvar, looked over at Hammel with mild disdain, "Still alive prisoner? Come with me if you want to stay that way!" Considering he most certainly did, the prisoner followed Hadvar as close as he could. The legionnaire dashed through the burning village, sword clutched tightly in his hand. Hammel glanced backwards at the relative cover of the rock-pile his new companion had just abandoned, then dashed after the clerk.

Time seemed to both speed up and crawl. Hammel's feet pounded through the dirt, smoke and fire everywhere, further weakening his already sore muscles. He passed a newly freed Stormcloak wresting over a pike with one of the legionaries, saw several archers doing their best to hit the dragon, heard the furious chanting of the priest as she worked her spells. All of his senses were filled with the overflow of information, so he blocked them out.

_Focus on getting to the safety of the keep in one piece, worry about other things later._

Ploughing on through smoking skeletons that had once been homes, the Nord followed his impromptu guide as close as he dared..

In front of him, Hadvar hacked his way through the smouldering ruin of a village hovel, pressing on towards what remained of the wall, shouting for the archers to keep the rain of arrows flying. Ducking his head under the charred remains of a door, Hammel kept his eyes on Hadvar, making his own progress towards the safety of the keep.

Several prisoners clashed with the legions auxiliaries, while archers on the wall fired arrows, with very little effect, at the rampaging dragon. Almost lazily, the great beast flew low over the wall, snatching two guards up in its massive clawed legs. Screaming in terror, the guards fell to a painful death after the dragon dropped them.

The keep was within Hammel's vision, standing dead ahead, a bastion of safety in the crisis around him. Shoving his way past an elderly villager, who stood gawking at the dragon, the Nord made his way for the doors.

The keep had two visible entrances, one further to the left, the other a straight run from where he was standing. Hadvar was directly ahead of him, sword clutched tightly in hand, clearly making a move for the closest door.

Someone else wanted it too.

Ralof came dashing out from nowhere, an iron battleaxe clutched tightly in each hand, both weapons dripping blood. Lianna was close behind him, hands unbound, a shovel gripped tightly between them. Based on the stains, said shovel had been put to use.

"Stand aside Imperial lapdog!" Ralof threatened, jabbing the battleaxe in his right hand menacingly at the Imperial soldier. "You stopped us before, but not this time!"

Hadvar, knowing two against one wouldn't end well for him, stepped back, "To Oblivion with you Ralof! I hope that dragon sends you all to Sovngarde!" The Nord soldier fell back, heading towards the far door. "Come on prisoner!" He shouted at Hammel, "You want to live don't you?"

"You would go with the Empire? After this?" Ralof shouted indignantly, gesturing for the prisoner to join him, "Come on!"

Hammel looked back and forth between the two doors, between Stormcloak and Imperial. "Ralof hasn't tried to kill me today." Hammel snapped at the clerk, moving over with the Stormcloak duo.

Hadvar didn't seem pleased, his mouth opening for a, no doubt, stinging retort, but another roar from the dragon silenced him. Sending another gout of flame into the courtyard as the dragon flew by it almost seemed amused with the pitiful attempts to bring it down. The priest tried to maintain her wards of protection but the dragon's power proved too great. Her dying screams prompted Hadvar to move. Throwing open the far door, the legionnaire disappeared into the inviting darkness of the keep.

"No sense waiting around here to get roasted," Lianna snapped, brandishing her shovel. "Ralof, get us in!"

The Stormcloak didn't bother responding to his wife, instead putting his boot against the nearest door. Lianna charged through it, Hammel hot on her heels. Taking one final glance at the courtyard around them, Ralof yanked the door shut as he retreated.

The darkness of the keep surrounded the trio, protecting them from the dragon. How long was another matter entirely.


	2. Get out Alive

**Chapter 2**

**Get out Alive**

"_Getting in is always the easy part. Getting out, there's the trick. Getting out in one piece? Sometimes that's more luck than anything."- "An Unofficial pocketbook for Thieves."-Written by Marvadine Shadowtalons. Published 3E 386_

The first thing that Hammel heard were Ralof's casually spoken words, "I can't see my own chin-hairs in this darkness." The words originated from everywhere and nowhere, location impossible to discern in the blackness. If Hammel had to guess, he'd say the duo was behind him, but then again, he wasn't exactly a gambling man.

"Ralof," Lianna's words carried just a tiny hint of sarcasm, "You can't normally see your chin-hairs."

"True that," Ralof answered with a chuckle. "Could you light a torch? I'd rather not escape the block just to break my neck fumbling around in the darkness like some drunk."

"Give me a moment. I'm not a god you know." A fumbling noise came from the High Elf's general direction as she scrambled around in the dark for a torch. A few quiet words were muttered, then a blast of fire erupted from her right hand, blazing over a nearby wall-sconce. The tinder within erupted into glorious light, chasing the ensnaring darkness away.

The entrance chamber now visible, Hammel glanced about, taking in the chamber's details. The walls and floor were crafted from solid stone, a flag dominated the left side, an empty weapon rack the other. In the center of the room sat a large table, surrounded by several chairs. Slumping against said table was a dead Stormcloak, throat slashed open his blood staining the surrounding wood.

Ralof's eyes fell at the sight of the fallen rebel. "Swift journey to Sovngarde brother," the blond Stormcloak murmured softly. "You might as well help yourself to Gunjar's kit. He won't be needing it where he's going." The words were soft, but undoubtedly directed towards Hammel.

"Be respectful!" Lianna snarled, pointing her shovel at the Nord threateningly.

"One problem," Hammel stated casually, pointedly ignoring Lianna's threat, "My hands are still bound. I can't do much of anything."

"Oh right," Ralof stated, "How foolish of me! Hang on." Looking over the table, Ralof's eye fell upon an iron dagger. The tool was stained with food and coated in rust, clearly designed more for eating than killing, still it would do for now. Snatching the dagger up, Ralof approached Hammel. "Now, hold still while I get these off."

The prisoner held his bound hands outward, shrugging casually. "I'm a statue." Ralof chuckled but Lianna didn't seem amused. Pressing the rusted blade against the ropes binding Hammel's hands together, the renegade slashed them a few times. It took several passes, but the ropes finally broke with a loud twang.

Shaking his hands to throw off what remained of the ropes, Hammel rubbed his chaffed wrists to get the circulation flowing again. "Thanks." Bending down over what was left of Gunjar, the Nord began pulling off the supple fur boots covering the fallen warrior's feet.

"Don't mention it," Ralof answered warmly, "Now Lianna and I are going to look for a way out of here. Get that gear on."

Hammel almost groaned with pleasure as his feet snuggled up against the soft rabbit-hide. Later, he'd get his feet cleaned and bandaged, but for now, the boots were fine. He'd rather get out of the keep alive and a little sore, than spend his last moments in comfort.

Removing the fur gauntlets on the rebel's person, Hammel pulled them on snugly. He was reaching for the chain-mail shirt covering Gunjar's torso when he heard voices.

"I don't give a damn what you think! There's a dragon running rampant through my town! On top of that, we've got a full blown prison outbreak on our hands! We can't deal with both. You see a prisoner, you put him down, got it?" The voice was harsh and female, leaving Hammel with little doubt who it belonged too.

"Hide, you fool!" Lianna hissed, pressing herself against the table. Ralof dropped to the cold, stone floor, shifting back into a corner. With only a few moments to spare, Hammel threw himself against the wall directly adjacent to the iron gate he'd failed to notice earlier. The captain's voice had drifted up through said gate, moving with purpose in the escapee's direction. From his new position against the wall, Hammel could see a solid oak door on the opposite side of the room. He nodded towards it, trying to ask the question, fight or flight? Ralof shook his head. Locked.

It would be fight then.

"Where's Hadvar?" Another voice, male and nervous, inquired, "He was right behind us."  
>"Whoever falls behind stays behind, you know that!" The captain snarled. "Now get this gate open! We need to get back out there!"<br>The gate rattled for a moment, accompanied by some voices muttering about "Getting us all killed," then swung open. Two standard Imperial Legionaries dashed into the room, swords drawn. Behind them, sword in one hand shield in the other, strode the captain. She may have been the shortest person in stature but she was largest in stance.

Springing to his feet, Ralof dashed towards the Imperials, screaming, "Skyrim!" At the top of his lungs. Lianna leapt over the table, shovel in hand, standing side by side with her husband.

Ralof and one of the soldiers were already trading blows by the time the captain ordered, "Take no prisoners!" She took several steps forward, intent on skewering Lianna in the back, while the rebel deflected sword strikes with her shovel. The Imperial's plans were thwarted when she was struck from behind by an onrushing cart of hatred and fury.

A cart of hatred and fury named Hammel Greymist.

Slamming face first into the floor, Hammel on her back, the captain lost the grip on her sword. The blade went flying, skipping off the stones into the shadows of the far right corner. Flipping her over, so she was face to face with him, the escapee snarled, "Payback!" Striking her right in the nose with his fist, Hammel put all his fury behind the blow. Cartilage broke and blood flew as the first blow received an encore. Hammel was bringing his fist back for a third strike when the captain responded. Smashing her shield upwards, she bashed Hammel in the chest, throwing him off.

His back hit the stone with a raw smack, stars flashing before his eyes. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Hammel rose again. The captain was moving for her sword; blade verses fists was no contest. Ralof's latest double swing had dropped his opponent, while Lianna's lack of proper weapon had forced her against the wall. Her magic was useless, because the second it would take to cast would be a second too long. She'd be dead before she finished.

Neither of them would be able to help him, this battle was his alone.

Taking three quick steps to build momentum, Hammel rushed the captain again, wrapping his hands around her neck from behind.

Hammel began squeezing. He might have been stronger, but the captain was tough and unafraid of fighting dirty. Snapping her head back, her solid steel helm kissed Hammel's unprotected face. The jagged rise added yet another scar across the Nord's forehead. Falling away, Hammel's hands grasped desperately, wrapping around the helmet's cheek-guards.

Snapping suddenly, the chin strap on the helmet broke, sending Hammel back a step, the captain's helmet still in his hand. The woman rushed away, making another play for her fallen sword. Hammel did the only thing he could think of.

He grabbed the captain by the shoulder, yanking with all his might. His strength and momentum proved enough to spin her around. The captain was face to face with Hammel for a split second; that was all the time he need. Fist clutching the remains of the chinstrap, the Nord swung.

Steel helmet met unprotected face in a spray of blood and snapping of bone. The captain staggered back, three teeth shattered, bleeding from several open cuts. She seemed shocked to have been struck. The move was so effective that Hammel hit her again. Falling onto her back, the captain lay there, bleeding out, face almost unrecognizable. Taking the helmet in both hands, Hammel raised it over his head then, with all his might, slammed it down onto his foe's face.

There was a squishing noise, similar to smashing a watermelon, a little resistance, then limpness. Tossing the blood-soaked helmet away, Hammel went to the now deceased captain's belt, looking for a key or anything that would let them get further into the keep.

"Nice job," Ralof commented, gazing at the remains of the captain with a look that implied both utter respect and total disgust. "Not very clean though."

Finding the desired key and yanking it free from the belt Hammel shrugged, "I had to improvise."

"Here," Lianna stated, tossing an Imperial made longsword across the room to the kneeling nord, "This might be cleaner."

Catching the blade in mid-air, Hammel responded by throwing the key over to Ralof. "See if that fits in the door. I'm grabbing a second one"

Lianna raised a single black eyebrow, "Fancy huh? Don't get us killed with your theatrics."  
>Hammel gave a sarcastic bow, "I live to serve my lady." Moving off into the corner before the elf could reply, the Nord snatched up the captain's fallen sword.<p>

Weighing the blades against each other, Hammel took a few experimental swings. His arms felt oddly heavy and his feet stiff. The inactivity of riding the cart seemed to have strained him somewhat, made him rusty. Still, he knew that he'd be back into combat readiness soon enough. He simply hoped it would be fast enough.

Ralof growled a few times, wiggling the key in the lock for a couple moments. A satisfying click sounded, eliciting a shout of triumph and a pumped fist from the Stormcloak. "It worked! By Talos it worked!"

"That's great dear," Lianna stated, a bit coldly, "Now come on! Let's get moving!" Hammel noticed the elf had ditched her shovel for the last of the Imperial swords. Judging by the way she held it, the blade wasn't made in her typical style. Still, far better than the shovel though.

"Right you are!" Ralof put his boot against the door, slamming it aside. "Let's go!"

Hammel took the lead, sword in each hand. Bolting through the corridor, his eyes took in everything. Torches still lit, chairs and barrels overturned, a few bodies scattered here and there. His ankles were still stinging from the pain of a thousand tiny cuts, making concentration difficult. To distract himself from the agony Hammel asked Ralof, "Do you have any idea where this hallway leads?"

The blond nord shook his head, "None. Though the cart of lettuce we passed a ways back," the nord rebel nodded his head back at said cart, "Implies a storage room." The trio of escapees pounded down a short flight of stairs, "I'd be careful though, the last thing we want is more Imperials than we can take." Outside the keep, the dragon's might roar was heard again, chilling those inside despite the stone walls. "Then again, they seem to have their hands full."

"You heard that captain Ralof," Lianna pointed out, sword still drawn, "If they see us they won't hesitate before attacking. Dragon or no."

The stairs ended, hallway leveling out before them. A few steps ahead, the corridor bent to the left, hiding the location of any possible soldiers. Ralof pointed this out; to Hammel's joy it seemed his new friend had some decent military experience. Pressing his back against the wall, the Nord peaked around the corner. To the right of his gaze was an oak door, straight onward, the hallway continued going down farther into the keep, directly on his left a stone wall dominated. "We're clear for now," Hammel reported, his voice hoarse, "Don't know for how long."  
>"Then we'd better move now." Lianna stated, brandishing her sword before her. "Come on, before more guards show up."<p>

Dashing from the cover of the corridor, the trio began moving down the hallway swiftly and silently, alert for any soldiers. But the danger wasn't coming in the form of physical enemies. Hammel's highly trained military senses picked up on the rumbling of the roof above. A quick glance upward showed cracks shooting rapidly across it. "Get back now!" The escapee roared, flinging himself backwards.

Lianna and Ralof complied without argument, backpedaling with the speed of a beggar fleeing an angry mark. Even as the moved, the hallway gave in, collapsing right before them. Rubble completely filled the passage where the trio had been standing only moments before. No going that way any more.

"I wonder how..." The dragon roared again, cutting off any doubt in Ralof's mind as to the source of the tunnel's mysterious collapse. "Dragon's persistent, I'll give it that."

Ignoring Ralof's half-compliment of the creature trying to kill them all, Hammel glanced back at the door. "I guess we're going that way after all."

Standing shakily to her feet, Lianna went back to check the door while the two men gathered their wits. "It isn't locked," she assessed after a moment, "But people are talking on the other side." She pressed a pointed ear against the wooden barrier for a moment, listening. Spitting on the floor she gave a report, "Imperial's from the sound of it."

Drawing his war axes, Ralof smiled. "I suppose we'll have to kill a few more of the Empire's lapdogs on the way out."

"What do you say to shock and awe?" Hammel inquired, face straight, though doing a poor job masking his enthusiasm for the idea.

"Good plan." Ralof kicked in yet another door, leading the charge as the trio stormed in. They were greeted by a storeroom, ordinary. A fireplace roared in one corner, while a table, covered in food sat unbothered by the chaos around it. Several cupboards and barrels surrounded the simple room, while various pieces of game hung from the ceiling. Two Legionaries were going through the barrels while a third was gazing at the door the Hammel and the Stormcloaks had just entered through. A Sargent was in the middle of giving orders when the door gave way, escapee's spilling into the room, brandishing weapons and shouting.

"Kill them!" The Sargent roared, dropping the wooden case in his hands to go for the sword at his waist. The guard was already charging the Stormcloaks and Hammel while the other two soldiers were reacting.

Hammel met the guard head on, sword in each hand, a snarl contorting his features. "Bloody prisoner!" The Legionnaire shouted, swinging his blade high. Hammel blocked the clumsy strike with his right sword, simultaneously plunging the blade in his left through the guard's stomach. With a look of shock and a grunt, the soldier collapsed, blood gushing from the hole in his gut.

Across the room, Ralof buried both his axes right in the face of one of the Imperials, while Lianna threw a wall of fire over the Sargent. Ralof moved to assist his wife, leaving the last soldier for Hammel.

Gingerly stepping over the body of the dead legionnaire at his feet, the Nord approached the survivor. This Imperial rushed him, swinging high, low, then high again. The flurry of blows put the warrior on total defense, forcing him to pivot backwards, so his unprotected back was against one of the cupboards. The Imperial lunged, fully intent on running Hammel through with his blade. The Nord blocked with his right handed blade again, jabbing outward with the left.

The Legionnaire hopped to the side, narrowly dodging the blow but completely unprepared from the swing from the warrior's right. Hammel's blade took him in the side of the face, striking with enough force to launch the enemy solider backwards. The now dead trooper hit one of the cupboards head first, smashing through the lower shelf and supports. This prompted the whole unit to collapse, burying the fallen soldier under wood, tankards, pans and slices of bread.

The sounds of battle ceased as the Sargent fell, unprotected head split open from a well placed axe blow. The three victors stood silently for a moment, catching their breath after the short but fierce confrontation.

Eyes falling upon an empty sack, Hammel sheathed both his blades, grabbing the goat-hide bag. He began shoveling things into it, bread, wine, potions, septims, even silverware.

"Might I ask, what in Oblivion you're doing?" Lianna snapped, looking scathingly at the Nord.

"Gathering supplies," Hammel responded casually, pulling a full rabbit off of the ceiling, "I don't know where we are. I'd rather spend a few minutes now grabbing some things that may prove useful, than die of starvation because I ended up in the Throat of the World."

Lianna looked back at her husband to make a comment, only to see him following Hammel's example. The blond Stormcloak having popped open a barrel and rapidly began shoving the potions it contained into a sack of his own. "Fine," Lianna stated, jabbing her head in the direction of the double doors leading out of the storeroom. "I'll just guard the exit until you've grabbed enough trinkets."

Her words, laced with disdain, barely registered on Hammel, "Alto wine," he murmured, looking at the bottle in his hand, "A hundred year vintage," he almost salivated at the thought of that wine running smoothly down his throat, cleaning out the grime coating his insides. Finishing his looting with a guard's coin purse and a hunk of goat cheese, Hammel tied the bag shut. "Ready to move." His words were simple, direct and full of promise. The promise of pain for anyone who got in his way. Slinging the sack across his shoulder, Hammel drew his blades once again, ready for anything Skyrim would throw his way.

Ralof followed suit, sack over shoulder, axe in each hand. "Get that door open Lianna. We've been in this keep far too long."

"My pleasure." Giving a vicious smile the Altmer rammed her shoulder into the double doors, throwing them aside with resounding thuds. Striding forward, the trio advanced into the hall, grim looks of determination capable of sending a Dremora fleeing in terror.

"Did you hear that?" Ralof asked after a moment of travel, straining his ears against the general noise.

"Steel on steel," Hammel answered, already moving down the hall as fast as he could. His ankles and body screamed at him in agony, it had already taken a massive pounding from the day's unexpected labors and constant pushing, but the Nord willed the pain away. He could rest later, get cleaned up later, eat later; right now he had work to do.

The walls grew darker around him, almost more ominous as the escapees went further into the keep. The tunnel became less even, more natural, Hammel got a sinking suspicion where the chamber would lead. This tunnel was meant to be traveled very rarely, avoided if at all possible. Only two rooms in such a stronghold held functions best avoided and the smell wafting up the hallway wasn't feces.

The room they entered boldly lacked a door, almost daring the keep's residents to enter it. A trio of crudely designed cages sat pressed against the back wall, each containing the remains of someone unlucky enough to have entered the torture chamber as a guest of honor. Two hanging cells dipped down from the ceiling, both currently empty, but the stained iron preaching of use. A ramshackle wooden table occupied another corner, covered both in torture instruments and embalming tools, never meant to be used for this function. A large, sealed area was filled with books, weapons, potions, anything the on duty torturer might need.

The details of the room were secondary to Hammel, what mattered were the occupants. Next to the cages, a young man in simple robes was banging his mace repeatedly against the shield of a Stormcloak. The blocking warrior held a sword but was unable to bring it to bare, any kind of opening would be fatal. The other Stormcloak was young, female and built like a snow bear. The giant warhammer clutched in both powerful hands should have made short work of the old, robed man before her. But this man, the head torturer judging from the blood on his robes, had the gift of magic. Blazing forth from his hands with crackling power, lightning continued striking the Stormcloak, slowly burning her to death. Her face contorted in agony, the Stormcloak was down on one knee, hands gripping the warhammer's handle for support.

The old man laughed insanely, advancing slowly on the fallen warrior, "Death to you! Death to you and all your vile rebel friends!" His magical lightning grew stronger, his eyes dancing with the fires of maniacal energy.

Torture was something that Hammel could not abide. He'd kill a man in a fair fight, or a not so fair fight, or if he was paid to but torture? That was sick and unnecessary.

Striding across the torture chamber without pause, Hammel approached the torturer from behind, almost silent. The old man had no knowledge of the Nord in life, he would have none in death.

Running both swords through the torture master's chest casually, Hammel kicked the corpse to the floor, watching curiously as the lightning faded away. The assistant gaped at the sight of his master laying dead on the ground. The pause provided the assistant's opponent ample opportunity to lop off his ugly head. The now headless man hit the floor, blood oozing out from a now empty neck.

Hammel sheathed one sword, offering an empty hand to the kneeling Nord woman. Looking up at the warrior for a moment, the short, stocky Stormcloak scrutinized him, then accepted, clasping her hand around his forearm. "Thanks," she stated, sounding sincere enough as he hulled her to her feet. "I thought that old bugger had me there." Her eyes fell past Hammel's shoulder to fall upon Ralof, "Ralof! You made it! What about the others? Did you see anyone?"

"Natala!" Ralof exclaimed happily, crossing the room to clap the woman on the shoulder, "Good to see you alive." He looked past her at the man, "You too Thangar." Thangar just nodded, glancing down the pathway out of the chamber. The renegade looked back towards Natala, "To answer your question, we haven't seen anyone else. We gathered in one of the guard towers with several others, including Jarl Ulfric, but got separated. Have you seen anyone else?"

Natala shook her head. "Only in the courtyard, but with that dragon flying overhead, finding cover was the most important thing in our minds. Thangar and I wanted to avoid any entanglements." Gazing down at the remains of the Imperial torture master at her feet, she grinned wryly. "We almost succeeded." Her eyes fell upon Hammel again, looking the Nord's equipment over, "You should probably put some armor on." She commented, glancing at his ragged trousers and crudely spun tunic, "Those aren't going to block any blades."

Hammel shrugged, "I'll grab armor when I have time. Where does that tunnel lead?" His free hand pointed down a path leading out of the torture chamber, this one obviously natural.

"Based on the notes we found," Thangar answered, speaking for the first time, his face hidden behind a full helmet commonly found on the heads of town guards. "This leads into the mountains, coming out somewhere west of Helgen. If you make it out of the tunnels in one piece you should be home free."

"Why if?" Lianna asked, "There can't be anything more dangerous than a few wolves in there."

"Ordinarily," Natala answered, shooting several sideways glances at the tunnels, "But Thangar and I heard movement down there and voices. Sounded Imperial, probably trying to escape."

Ralof chewed his lip a moment then answered, "Tell you what, you two stay here as long as possible, send anyone else who makes it out our way. We'll clean these tunnels of Imperials as we escape." The blond Nord looked over to Hammel with a question look, "That's alright with you...?"

Hammel realized that Ralof didn't know his name, "Hammel, Hammel Greymist. And it's fine by me, as long as we don't come back here." He didn't want to admit it, but the torture room was giving him the chills. He was Nord, he didn't chill easy.

"Alright," Both Thangar and Natala seemed fine with this solution, neither of them keen on exploring the tunnels.

"Talos be with you," Ralof blessed, "If you get overwhelmed retreat, no sense dying over this filth pile."

His orders were met with nods of agreement, "You too," Thangar answered, nodding his helmeted head, "Be careful down there."

Without another word, the three moved down the cave tunnel, away from fallen torturers and living allies, further into hostile territory but also closer to the cool, free air of Skyrim. Moving as silently as possible, the trio moved over several bumps and around several bends. A brown bear almost proved dangerous; fortunately, she was sound asleep, the escapees sneaking by her without incident.

After ten or so minutes of stealthy travel, voices could be heard up ahead, Imperial voices judging from their accents and dialogs. The tunnel the escapees occupied bent sharply to the right, opening up into a large cavern. The voices heard were drifting up from said cavern.  
>"But we have orders to help General Tullius in a situation like this!" That voice held a Nordic tinge; it seemed the escapees would be facing their own blood.<p>

"Hang our orders!" Another voice crisply answered, this one Imperial in birth, not just employment. "We can't help the general very much if we're dead now, can we?"

"Shut up you two!" This voice was Redguard, sounding very annoyed, "We barely made it out of there! And we still aren't out of the woods yet." There was a pause and the sound of shuffling bodies, "Grogrot! Get those three moving!"

"But Titus took an arrow through the knee! We're moving as fast as we can!"

"Can it Julius!" Undoubtedly an Orc, the voice rumbled, "Dump his useless ass if you have to, we need to get out of here!"

Hammel glanced out from behind the cover of his corner, taking the scene in before him. There were seven legionaries, in various states of injury, moving through the cavern ahead. Four of them, those speaking, were in the front, swords and maces drawn. In the back, two other legionaries were helping a third between them, moving the groaning soldier as fast as they could. The soldier Julius, seemed to be one of that trio.

"I've got a knack for taking people out without them knowing," Hammel whispered, glancing back at Ralof, "Commander once said, I could shoot the wings of a fly without warning his brother. You wouldn't happen to have a bow by any chance?"

Ralof's bearded face cracked into a smile, "Now that you mention it..." Lowering his sack to the ground, the Stromcloak removed a simple wooden longbow and a dozen iron arrows. "Don't miss."

Accepting the offered weapon, Hammel looked at both Stormcloaks, "When the first Imperial hits the ground go charging in, Ralof, take whoever you can, Lianna use magic." He looked back into the cavern grimly, "If we don't even these odds quickly it'll end badly for us." Both warriors nodded, faces set in a ready expression. "Alright, let's go."

Creeping into the new area, hidden in the shadows, Hammel strung the bow. Notching an arrow, he surveyed the possible targets.

_Who dies first? _

It became obvious that one in the back team should feel the cold hand of death soonest. Hammel mentally drew straws for the three in the back. The supporting Legionnaire on the left got the short one.

_Sorry friend._

Hammel pulled the string back to his ear, took aim then silently released the arrow. The iron tipped shaft sailed through the air, slamming into the back of the unfortunate soldier's neck. With a gargle, the Imperial slumped to the ground, dropping his wounded comrade. A second arrow put the injured soldier out of his misery before anyone was aware what had happened. Julius drew a blade, his face revealed in the light. He was helmet-less, his handlebar mustache proved no deterrent for Ralof's axe.

Screaming war cries, the two Stormcloaks dashed past the long-haired corpse, face neatly bisected, approaching the four remaining Legionaries. Hammel raced after them, slinging the bow over his shoulders for now, drawing both blades as he moved.

"The elf is mine!" The Orc howled, his steel morning-star clutched tightly in a powerful green fist, the other glowing with some sort of magical power. Two of the others went at Ralof, the Redguard and Nord crossing blades with the blond Stormcloak. That left the remaining Imperial to face Hammel. Drawing his shield and war axe, the soldier dashed in, shield leading. Hammel leaned back, dodging the Imperial's attempted shield bash. Launching a three strike attack, Hammel attempted to keep the soldier on his toes. While his adversary managed to block the trio of deadly strikes, it left him unprepared for Hammel's next move.

The Nord kicked the Legionary in the ankle, putting all his anger behind the blow. The bone snapped, the light armor proving useless against Nordic rage and strength. Howling in pain, the Imperial fell, only to be forever silenced by the flashing blades of Hammel Greymist.

Glancing over, the former soldier saw Ralof holding his own just fine against the Redguard, the Nord already on the ground, bleeding his last. Lianna, on the other hand, seemed a bit outmatched. Raising a ward to block the fireballs the Orc was hurling her way, rather than attacking, the elf rebel took a step backward. Even as he moved, Hammel knew there was no way he'd reach her in time. The Orc advanced, licking his lips in anticipation of the kill, Morning-star held outright, when Lianna did something very unexpected.

Taking two steps back, the elf opened her mouth and shouted a single word, "_Iiz!_" For a second, the air around the advancing Orc rippled. Then, without warning, the Imperial battlemage froze solid, falling to the ground with an audible thump. The Redguard looked over for a second, long enough to get an axe in the throat. Hammel did his best to process this new information.

_This elf, she can shout! How in Oblivion is that possible? _

He'd have to get more details later, now was not the time.

Lianna grimly advanced on the frozen Orc, looked at him once, then stamped her boot over his frozen face. The Orc's head shattered, icy pieces of skull and brain rocketing off in all directions.

An eery silence fell over the cavern, broken only by the ragged breathing of the survivors and the gentle bubbling of the stream rolling through unperturbed. "Do you smell that?" Hammel sniffed once more, standing completely still. "Its a cool breeze, and it's fresh."

Lianna took several hesitant steps forward, raised a hand once then hissed excitedly, "This way, come on Ralof!" Her steps turned into a full blow sprint, blasting past her husband towards the fresh air. Ralof and Hammel followed closely, aches and pains all but forgotten. The tunnel grew wider, light starting to grow, the breeze so obvious now. The escapees could hear the wind howling, promising freedom. Pushing themselves to the limits the former prisoners blasted out of the tunnel, leaving the caves behind and revealing a free Skyrim stretched out before them.

They were standing on the outside of a small mountain, an obvious path down. Before them, a valley stretched outwards, towering pine trees dominating it. The might forests were broken only by a proud river, gargling its way through the valley. Promising salmon and fresh water, it beckoned a closer look. The very air around them was cold, crisp, yet so very delicious. It was like a painting, complete with cool blue sky and distant, snow-capped, mountains. A lone eagle shirked as it soared through the air, a few elk dashed over a log, a fox dashed under a shrub. After the long treacherous caverns, the basic wilderness seemed more lovely to Hammel than any woman.

Each took a moment to catch their breath, sucking the free air of Skyrim into their lungs. Helgen was nowhere in sight, smoke rising in the distance behind them. No Imperials, bears or any other enemy was present as far as the eye could see. They'd made it.

"Well, what no-?" Ralof's words were interrupted by the roar of the dragon responsible, flying towards them at breakneck speed. "Not again!" He cursed, throwing himself to the ground. "Get down, now!" Dropping to the dirt so fast he ate mud, Hammel swore as he, once again, injured himself. This time bashing his knee on a rock. Lianna took a different approach, falling back into the mouth of the cave, concealing herself in the shadows. The Nord didn't even dare to breath.

The dragon circled once overhead, roared once more, then pressed on. Flying down the valley towards the mountains in the distance, the dragon bellowed a mighty howl of triumph as if boasting to the world all destruction he'd caused.

"Okay," Hammel murmured, looking at the dragon growing steady smaller in the distance. "I think he's gone for good this time." The other two joined him in standing, gazing out over the wooded valley. "What do we do now?"

"If we keep moving," Ralof mused, stroking his beard, "I might find something recognizable."

"I'm not going another step without taking one of these," Hammel commented, dropping his sack to the ground. Opening the bag, the Nord withdrew three unmarked vials, each bubbling with a dull green liquid.

"Stamina potions," Lianna commented dryly, taking one as Hammel passed them around, "I'm surprised you can tell without a label."

The Nord shrugged, "They taught us to recognize potions in the Legion. Didn't want us poisoning ourselves by accident I suppose." Uncorking the little bottle, he swirled its contents gingerly, "Fair warning, this is the cheap stuff. That means it smells and tastes just like piss."

"More of a piss with ink taste," Lianna muttered, grimacing as she downed her shot.

"I'm sorry, why in Talos' name would I want to drink piss with ink?" Ralof muttered, looking down at the potion vial with casual disdain.

Hammel explained to his kinsman, "Because, after taking even this cheap stuff, you feel like you've had a nice long sleep and a piping hot meal. Chases the weariness right out of you." Cocking his thump back towards the cave mouth Hammel continued, "I'd rather take three steps away from here and not collapse. Yes the stamina potion doesn't taste like the healing potions we're all used to, but it serves its purpose. Now," he raised his vial, "Bottoms up."

The bottle's contents burned down his throat; he hadn't been kidding about the taste. Yet a few seconds later it was all worth it. That sore tugging on his muscles? That tired feeling in his lungs? All vanished, it was like a second wind. Smashing the bottle on the ground and grinding the shards underfoot, Hammel re-slung his pack, ready to roll out.

Spitting on the ground once, Ralof stated, "Well you were right about the taste. But you were also right about the effect, so I'll let this one slide." Hammel just smiled. "Come on," Ralof continued, "Lets get moving. If we stick around who knows what's coming out of that tunnel?"

No one had any real response for that, so the trio begun their journey down the mountain side, into the valley. Physically refreshed by the potion but emotionally still weary even a little wounded. No one who stares death in the face walks away completely unharmed. There are always scars, no matter how far they might be buried.

* * *

><p>Had the trio waited a just few more moments at the exit, they would have heard someone come crashing out of the cave behind them. The man's boots were ragged and torn, smelling of smoke, armor tattered and stained. His sword dripped blood liberally, while his left arm fell mangled and useless against his torso. Pity he'd already used his only healing potion on a stab through the chest. His eyes held a vacant look, his face covered in blood and soot. However, despite all appearances, he was alive.<p>

Hadvar looked around, judged where he was, then took off in the opposite direction the trio had gone. Crashing through the woods, running as fast as his wounded body would take him, one thought went pounding through Hadvar's mind.

_Jarl Elisif needs to know what happened here._

AN

First of all, thanks for all the support! The encouragement for this piece has been overwhelming! Yes, I do realize in hindsight Hammel's kit does sound like Legolas. Oh well, I didn't think of the Elf at all when I designed this character.

Once again, thanks for reading. FUS RO DAH!


	3. A Short stop on Life's Journey

**Chapter 3**

**A Short Stop on life's Journey**

"_By the Divines boy! Don't just run from ruin to ruin and from fight to fight! Stop a while, laugh, eat, create. It's a dark world around us, little breaks make it all worthwhile."- Excerpt from "Words to would-be adventurers."-Written by Rigile Doubleswords. Published 3E 421_

"So, these stones are supposed to mean something to me?" Hammel asked casually, trying not to let any disdain creep into his tone.

The trio of Standing Stones lorded over the nearby river, each standing proud and erect. All seemed to be crafted of a dark marble, far to impossibly smooth to be natural. Each held the carving of a constellation on them, the one farthest to the right contained the thief, then the mage and finally the warrior. Grouped together, the stones reminded him of brothers, despite their differences, each could depend on the other. Hammel didn't want to admit it, but he could feel something, a low humming power originating from each one.

The three escaped prisoners had been walking around in the valley for some time, munching on bread, drinking mead, and, in general, making very little progress towards civilization. It was getting dark and the former legionnaire didn't want to spend the night outside. Even a lone wolf could kill him while he slept.

The escapees had spoken very little to each other for most the journey. Until they'd come upon these three stones, the Mer hadn't opened her mouth once. As for the Stones, Ralof and Lianna seemed to find them important.

"Aside from the fact it means I now know where we are?" Ralof looked over at Hammel in surprise. "You don't know what these are? They've been around at least fifteen years!"

Hammel shrugged, "Haven't been back home for at least twenty. So, what are they?"

"These stones," Ralof explained patting the Warrior casually. "Allow you to harness the power of the constellations. Simply put, pick one of the stones, accept its blessing, and you'll be better at certain things. What do you have to lose?"

"Nothing I suppose," Hammel responded drolly, strolling up to the Warrior. His mother had always told him the stars were his allies and protectors, watching over him from on high. That brought thoughts of Ellaina Greymist to mind. With sheer force of will Hammel blocked the images out. Thinking of his mother wasn't something he did by choice.

Stretching out his hand, Hammel brushed his fingers against the Warrior. The fur gauntlet covering his appendage prevented any feeling; so he removed it. Bare fingers traced the stone up and down, exploring it. The rock was the smoothest thing he'd ever felt in his many years. As his flesh made contact with totem he could hear a strong Nordic voice whispering faintly in the back of his mind, "Do you wish to accept my gift?"

"Yes." Hammel's solitary word seemed to have some kind of effect. The stone blazed to life, the Warrior etched upon it glowing an unnatural blue. A blast of light shot out of the totem's point, blazing up into the sky.

Glancing upward, Hammel saw the stars of the Warrior shining brightly, despite the fact that the skies had yet to darken. For a split second, he felt a strange energy coursing through his body. A moment passed and the feeling vanished.

"The warrior," Ralof commented approvingly, "Good choice. Now then," the renegade turned, glancing down the crude dirt path to the left of them. "If we head this way we should reach Riverwood in just a few minutes." He sighed contentedly, "Riverwood; it's been so long."

Lianna nodded her head happily, "Riverwood it is." The trio began moving in the hamlet's direction. Hammel had no problem with the destination; he certainly didn't have other plans.

The forest around them smelled sweetly of crisp pine, the air fresh. Skyrim's country was so beautiful compared to the tunnels and caves the trio had been crawling around in for the previous portion of the day. The sky was a proud nordic blue, the pines towering green giants, the river bubbling happily across from the dirt path.

The Nord could barely believe he'd escaped death. It had been close, far too close for his tastes.

"So, what happens if we get there and the Legion has a description of us?" Hammel inquired casually. "I sure as Oblivion don't want another fight today."

"Riverwood is a small village," Ralof explained as they traveled. "Technically, it belongs to the hold of Whiterun. Whiterun is neutral in this conflict, so Riverwood is neutral." Ralof paused, thinking for a moment. "Besides that, my sister Gerdur practically owns it. We'll be safe there."

"All the same," Lianna stated, "If we do run into Imperials, let Ralof do the talking, okay?" She took a deep breath through the nose. "I can smell Gerdur's cooking now."

"What's your sister do?" Hammel probed. Travel was dull and his stomach was growling; conversation helped to take his mind off of it.

"She owns the mill, and therefore the primary source of income for all Riverwood. Though her husband, Hod, does most of the actual work. They also have a share in the Sleeping Giant, Riverwood's only inn, so make money on both accounts. They're good people, maybe not rich but happy with their lives. I'm sure they'll give us a place to hide. For a few days at least."

"What about the others?" Hammel questioned, "Where will they go?"

"You sound like you care," Lianna snorted. "Thinking of joining up with the Stormcloaks then?"

Hammel shrugged, "Not sure. I don't know where to stand yet."

"You'll have to decide some day," the Altmer stated coldly, looking at him oddly, as if gazing into his soul.

"Perhaps," he responded casually, "But not today."

"Lianna, he just got home," Ralof interjected. "No need to indoctrinate him just yet!" His eyes fell a bit, gazing at the dirt road to hide their expression. "I'm sure after seeing what the Imperials are doing to his homeland he'll sign up." Looking back on the road ahead, Ralof continued, "If anyone survived they'll have headed either to Riverwood or back to Windhelm. We can rest a few days, gather our strength, then go our separate ways."

The little hamlet of Riverwood appeared within their line of vision, even as darkness fell around them. Hammel had never felt so happy to see a town in his life, well, he had, but not for several years. Barking madly, a dog heralded their arrival, fortunately no guards came running. The lack of response seemed to originate from the fact that Riverwood didn't have any guards at all.

As the badly beaten trio entered town, an old woman tanning leather by the gate began raving. "A dragon! I saw a dragon I tell you! Black as death and big as a mountain!" She ranted, spittle flying from wizened lips as the crone shouted. Nobody paid her any heed.

"The mill is on the left side," Ralof stated, pointing his finger in the direction of the only mill visible. Riverwood couldn't have been more than ten buildings, mill excluded. The structure took up most of the left side, with a pair of simple wooden houses past it. To the right of the dirt road, several more small homes stood next to what appeared to be a general store and one larger building with a weather-beaten sign reading, "The Sleeping Giant Inn." The dirt path wound its way through the town before continuing off into the distance.

"If I know Gerdur she'll still be working. Isn't that late yet!" Ralof chuckled, strolling towards the mill, crossing a small pine bridge, leading out to the equally small island most of the mill sat upon. Calling it an island did it far to much justice, the clump of land couldn't have been more than thirty square feet. A sliver of the river divided it from the mainland, keeping it practically connected but providing plenty of space for the mill's wheel to turn.

Lianna glanced up and down, "Where is she? It's been too long since our last mead and sweet rolls night." Her gaze moved on to the mill's upper portion. A large, bulky man with a thick brown handlebar mustache and sagging paunch was dropping a massive log onto the mill's track. He growled from exertion, wiping his brow with a handkerchief before heading over to the crank which would begin the logging sequence. "Hey Hod!" She waved cheerily, "Been awhile!"

Hod turned sharply to face the sound of the voice. "Lianna?" He gaped, dashing over to the railing. He noticed Ralof next, "Ralof? What are you doing here?" Before the Nord rebel could respond, Hod threw both hands up. "Never mind! I'll hear all about it in a moment! Gerdur is back aways, I'm coming down." Hod disappeared, moving rapidly towards the back of the mill.

"Hod," Ralof shook his head humorously. "He's a good man. Don't know what my sister saw in him though." Once the trio rounded the corner and Hammel got a good look at Gerdur he understood Ralof's statement.

Unlike Hod, Gerdur was in excellent shape. It was clear that she was an older woman, mid-forties, but she still looked mighty attractive, in that rough-and-tumble nordic way. She had Ralof's long blonde hair, enough sinewy muscle to lift the logs Hod had moved earlier and looks besides. Her eyes were a cool, river blue, skin tanned from long hours spent outside, several scars, to be expected from working at a mill, danced their way up her arms. A band of matrimony sat proudly displayed on her finger for all Skyrim to see.

_Pity._ _Oh well_.

Gerdur was currently lecturing a much younger male nord, a fellow too young to have his first chin hairs. Jabbing her finger on his forehead for emphasis, Gerdur shook the woodcutter's axe in her hand menacingly. "I don't care who your father is!" her accent added an extra oomph to the words. "This is not a toy! Don't leave it laying around; the cold season is coming and we haven't made enough coin yet to get through! If someone's going to lose out on payment it won't be..."  
>"Gerdur!" Ralof cried happily, "I see you're doing well!"<p>

The miller's harsh words to her hired hand faded away into nothingness, "Ralof?" Her eyes boggled for a moment, "Lianna?" Dropping her axe, she rushed the male Stormcloak, wrapping her brother in a tight hug. As the siblings embraced, Hammel stood there awkwardly, kicking a wood chip laying on the ground. Hod came out of the mill with all the grace of a struggling Horker, his meaty face red with the physical exertion. Still, he seemed quite pleased to see the pair too, judging from the mighty bear hug he wrapped Lianna in.

"I'd heard rumors you'd been captured!" Gerdur breathed, her voice a bit shaky. Tracing Ralof's bearded face with her hands, the miller gazed at her brother with concern. "I thought I'd never see you again!"

"Uncle Ralof! Uncle Ralof!" A squeaky young voice shouted, followed by a dog barking. The patterning of little feet soon greeted Hammel's ears, along with the pattering of ones not as little. Glancing over his shoulder, the ex-legionnaire spied a young boy and a large shaggy dog bounding towards them.

The boy held some of Gerdur's features, mixed with Hod's oak-tinted hair. The dog was a Nordic wolf-hound, gray and covered head to toe in shaggy fur. "Uncle Ralof! How many Imperials did you kill? Can I touch your axe? Hi aunt Lianna! Did you melt anyone's face off? Can I see your sword?"

"Frodnar!" Gerdur scolded, "Your uncle and aunt just got back! Don't pester them with questions."

Lianna ignored everything else, kneeling before the dog, "Hi Stumpy," she crooned, scratching the dog behind his ears. "Who's a good boy?" Stumpy responded quite favorably to the treatment, letting his tongue hang out and pounding his tail on the ground several times.

The tone she spoke to the dog with was one Hammel hadn't heard from her before; warmth. It felt odd to hear the Altmer say anything without biting sarcasm.

"Look now Frodnar," Ralof encouraged kindly. "Your aunt, new friend and I just got back from a dangerous mission. We need to speak alone with your mother and father for a moment." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Tell you what, stand guard by the gate. If you see any Imperials, run and tell us okay? It'll be your part for the great cause."

"Me? Help the cause?" The concept of helping his heroic uncle clearly boggled the young lad's mind, his eyes became so wide, for a moment, the Nord wondered if they'd simply fall out of his head. Leaning back, he looked at Ralof with all the seriousness a young boy is capable of generating. "I won't let you or the Stormcloaks down, uncle Ralof!" He dashed away, waving to his dog as he ran, "Come on, Stumpy! We need to keep our eyes peeled for Legionaries!"

"You humor him to much," Gerdur said with a sad smile. Her eye's watered with concern as her son skipped away towards the gate. The stick he held in his hand was clearly a mighty sword, the weapon he used to slaughter his way through countless invisible soldiers.

"He's a boy, Gerdur, a little adventure will do him good." Looking between Gerdur and Hod, Ralof lowered his voice a bit, "We'll tell you everything you want to know; but we need some place private." He glanced around at the people milling about Riverwood, "I don't know who to trust."

Hod began fishing for a key in his belt pouch, "Come into the house, it's safe there." Hammel got up and followed the four without speaking. No one had bothered to comment on his presence yet, he wasn't sure if that pleased him or made him feel insulted.  
>The trip through Riverwood took all of half a minute; the destination proving to be another simple home, complete with thatched roof and picket fence.<p>

Hod slipped a bulky, copper key into the lock while the cow on front lawn mooed at Hammel indignantly. The beast seemed upset by the presence of someone he didn't recognize.

The four nords and the High Elf entered the single room home. It was cozy and warm, a well stocked bar dominated the only corner not filled with tables or beds. A pile of wood sat next to the fire, across from the guest bed. Gerdur fussed around the fireplace for a moment, soon filling the home with the warmth of a blazing fire, while simultaneously cooking some sort of strew.

Each person took a seat around the large table while Hod went over to the bar. The sounds of a large man rummaging through his collection of mead could be heard when Gerdur tackled the mammoth in the room. "Who in Oblivion is this anyway?" The miller gestured at him with an open hand, but it was her eyes that held the warrior's attention. Gerdur's gaze locked with Hammel's own, the woman's freezing blue orbs staring right through him. She seemed determined to pull the information she wanted out of his mind.

"Hammel Greymist, Miss Gerdur," the Nord answered, dropping his sack of acquired goods on the floor next to his chair. "I've been back in Skyrim for less than a day. I've survived Imperials, bears and a dragon. I'm hungry, tired and injured. But I'm not dead yet so it could be worse."

"You cut out the part where you saved my life a couple of times!" Ralof added, taking the bottle of mead Hod passed him with a grateful nod.

"That's a bit of an exaggeration," Lianna muttered. "Thanks Hod." She took her own mead, popped the cork out and begun drinking.

Hammel had taken a long draft of the Nord Mead Ralof's brother-in-law had passed him before Gerdur spoke, "Did you say something about a dragon?"

"Aye," Lianna answered, "A living, breathing dragon."

"They were waiting for us." Ralof began, putting his bottle of mead on the table. Hammel noticed that the Stormcloak had barely touched it. "We'd come out of the forest by Pale Pass when they ambushed us. Imperial soldiers, three of them for every one of us. Jarl Ulfric told us to lay down arms, which included magika." Ralof nodded pointedly at his wife. "Didn't want us dieing for nothing, I suppose." Ralof jerked his thumb at Hammel, "Greymist here, as well as a few others, made the mistake of trying to cross back into Skyrim at that particular moment. The soldiers didn't ask questions, they just grabbed everyone they could find."  
>Ralof paused for a moment, taking a long draft from the bottle of mead before him. Hammel glanced down at the bloodstained tunic he was still wearing, struggling to believe all this had happened in less than a day.<p>

_Time flies when you're having fun. Or someone tries to kill you._

"We were sent to Helgen by cart on a one way trip to the executioner's block." Ralof took another sip, letting mead and words mingle together. "Hammel was about to get the closest shave of his life when it came." He clapped his hands together for emphasis, "Boom! This dragon, flies out from nowhere, roaring like Dagon and burning everything it sight." The house went silent for a moment as the weight of Ralof's words sunk in. "As you could imagine, things were pretty crazy after that. The three of us made it out through the tunnels under Keep Helgen." Ralof seemed to remember the other 'Cloaks in the tower. "Has anyone else made it?"

Gerdur shook her head, "You're the first people I've seen coming that way." Her gaze sank, "What about Jarl Ulfric...is he?"

Lianna shook her head, "Last time we saw him, he was fine. Don't worry Gerdur, It'll take more than a dragon to stop Skyrim's greatest hero!"

Gazing down into his mead, Hammel murmured, "Why us?" No one spoke, the miller looked at him quizzically. "That was a village full of people, hundreds! Women, children, elderly. All gone." He knocked back another mouthful of mead, trying to blur the memories of Helgen with strong drink. "Why'd we make it out?"

Hod put his arm on Hammel's shoulder, "Talos was watching over you this day. You survived for a reason! You came back here, for a reason!"

Ralof chuckled, "We got lucky, nothing more." It was his turn for a falling gaze, "I just hope other members of our party had as much."

Gerdur was silent a moment, looking down at the table intently. "Greymist, you're sure it was a dragon?"

"Positive." Hammel had never been more certain of anything in his life. "It flew this way after burning everything in sight."

"If it really is coming this way, someone needs to tell the Jarl. Riverwood is defenseless. We need soldiers."

"Helgan had soldiers too," Hammel stated coldly. "It didn't help."

Lianna looked furious. Even the normally calm Ralof shot him a glare. Gerdur, however, didn't seem angry at Hammel's pessimism, "Be that as it may, I'd feel more comfortable with several of Whiterun's troops standing over us. Someone needs to go to Jarl Balgruuf and inform him of our plight."

The table fell silent, Gerdur's proclamation hanging in the air. "I'll go." Hammel couldn't believe those words had come from his lips. "I've got nothing better to do. The Empire I served abandoned me and I have no friends or family." He gave a self-deprecating smile, "If I die, who'll miss me?" He looked around the table, "Of course, anyone else is welcome to come along for the ride."

Hammel's stomach growled fiercely, echoing in the small home. "Well, you can't go anywhere tonight." Gerdur announced, getting up. "I've got a stew cooking and a warm bed." She looked him up and down, "You'll probably want armor or some kind of protection. A mud crab could bite through that shirt without any effort. Alvor won't take customers at this hour." Gerdur glanced out the window. "Besides, it's dark now."

Hammel started protesting about the food, but Gerdur would have none of it. "You helped my brother come back in one piece. The least I can do is offer food and lodging, besides, this venison stew is awfully large." Before Hammel could find another etiquette excuse, a wooden bowl full of piping hot stew was sitting before him and a spoon made of goat bone shoved into his hand. "Eat."

The stew was calling his name, all morals aside he was hungry. Three spoonfuls were already in his stomach before he realized it. It was so warm, so filling, the cold, tired exhaustion fell away. Hammel wanted to swim in the stuff; he couldn't do that, so he settled for eating as much as possible.

Frodnar had come back by this point, eating the stew along with everyone else. Very little was said during the first minutes of supper; the trio of escapees desperate to get anything into their bellies.

"How much do you know of the war?" Gerdur asked after a few moments, finishing her mead.

"Precious little," Hammel admitted. "Being in Elsweyr for several years, kind of makes one lose track." He finished the stew as Gerdur spooned him another bowl, "I know that Ulfric killed High King Torygg, using the voice no less. He thinks he should be king. Elisif, Torygg's widow, thinks that's a load of horse dung and that she should get the throne. Now there's a war going on."

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Gerdur admonished. "You know the terms of the White-Gold Concordat?" She looked at him, "You were a solider in the Legion."

Digging into the second bowl of stew Hammel answered, "I was, though the Great War ended thirty years ago. Some of the older veterans fought in that conflict; I did not. My company was involved with the bandit army attacking Elswyer. I'd heard something about Talos worship now being outlawed, but out there, any information coming from Cyrodiil is suspect."

"It's true." Gerdur's words hit Hammel like a warhammer, "Our greatest hero is now outlawed, all because of a treaty given by elves!"

"The founder of the Empire now spat upon!" Ralof roared, pounding the table with his fist. "It's an outrage! Jarl Ulfric would have none of it. Talos is our God, and he shall be for all time! No treaty or elves are going to stop that."  
>"That's terrible..." The words seemed so insignificant to Hammel, but he couldn't think of anything else.<p>

"It gets worse," Lianna stated tersely, her golden orb eyes giving the furious expression she wore a terrifying twist. "The Thalmor can come and go as they please throughout the Empire, snatching anyone who won't abandon the worship of Talos." Her eyes fell, "They drag those poor souls back to their embassies. Those we can't save..." Her words dragged off. "Well, lets just say we don't hear from them after that."

Hod stood up, pacing back and forth across the room, "No one sees the Thalmor agents unless they want you to. I've had friends who just..." He stopped mid-sentence, gazing intently into the flames, "Disappeared."

"That's why I fight," Ralof growled. His words seemed true, yet Hammel could tell, that was only part of the story. Ralof had other reasons beyond religion, beyond revenge. Lianna didn't bother voicing hers. She'd made them clear on the cart.

Hod was pacing his hovel now, striding across carpet and dirt. His eyes dashed back and forth between his son, who'd passed out with his dog, laying on the floor happily, and the window. Almost as if afraid Thalmor agents would leap from the woodwork and take his son away. Turning back towards the night, the bulky miller stared out into the darkness. "Gerdur," he asked after some length, "Who do we know in town with a fondness for torches?"

"No one," the stoic nord woman answered. "Why?"

Hod was moving towards the door even as his wife asked the question, "Because there are several torches moving towards town, and quickly."

Hammel stood shakily to his feet, stew cooling in his belly. Throwing the door open, the bulky miller dashed towards the lights, snatching up the axe from the wood pile as he went. The Nord followed close behind, a stolen Imperial sword sitting in each hand. Hammel was unaware of what the others did. Out of sight and out of mind.

Following Hod closely, the two men made quick progress to the town gate. Alvor, the town blacksmith Gerdur had mentioned was already there, gazing out into the blackness, hammer in hand. The blacksmith's dark beard blended perfectly with the night, reminding Hammel of other things capable of disappearing into the darkness. Namely, a few assassin's he'd tangled with. "What do you think Alvor?" Hod asked, "Bandits?"

"Not in good enough shape," Hammel stated. He pointed at a torch to the left. "See how it's wavering?" The miller nodded, gazing intently at the torch Hammel had directed him towards. "The carrier is wounded; left hip judging by the tilt. He's not the only one, by my guess."

"Ho!" Alvor shouted, free hand cupped beside his mouth, "Be you friend or foe?"

"By the Eight! We've got wounded; there's no time for your foolish games!" The voice was gruff and defiantly not human.

"I know him," Hammel told Hod after a moment's thought, "He was with me on the cart. An orc." Hammel began moving out towards the wounded Stormcloaks, heading towards the torches. "Help's on the way!" He shouted at the oncoming survivors. The glowing light revealed the first survivor to the ex-legionnaire.

It was the Orc.

Now, standing in the flickering light of the torch, the Orc's feature's were revealed to Hammel. He was tall, yet surprisingly light on muscle for his kind. His skin was the green-gray typical for his species; his face oddly free of scars. A long, green beard worked its way down his chest, stopping over the center of his ribcage. The lone scar on the mage, traced its way up the right side of his face, looking like the slash from a jagged piece of stone. His right ear was in tatters, like some great beast had bitten the top half clean off. His eyes were dull yellow, far less so than Lianna's, their complexion reminding Hammel uncomfortably of urine. His once proud mage robes were tattered and bloodstained, his ring-covered hands stained with the fluids draining out of the woman in his arms.

Without a word, Hammel pressed his fingers against the female Stormcloak's neck, her pulse was faint but present. "She's alive." He observed coolly, "Couldn't do any better, mage?"

"Restoration isn't my specialty," he responded without emotion. The mage's voice was rough but fluid in sound, almost like the ocean. "I did what I could to slow the bleeding and stabilize her, but she needs a healer. A good one and fast."

"Orgnar and Delphine," Hod answered, arriving in due course. One of the Stormcloaks was slumped against him, the rebel's bad hip finally having given out. "They run the Lonely Giant. Orgnar's a healer."

"Raina isn't the only one needing immediate attention," the Orc rumbled, nodding at the body in his arms. "At least two others won't last the night without treatment." His tone was devoid of any emotion, either he had a will of iron or was in a state of shock. "Most of us are running on pure adrenaline." Almost to punctuate the mage's words, one of the Stormcloaks collapsed. He simply fell, face first, into the dust, the color fading rapidly from his skin.

Others from the village were among them now, rushing in and out to aid the returning survivors. Hammel's hands were around the fallen rebel, dragging the man to his feet. Ralof, Lianna and Gerdur were providing similar assistance to anyone they could. It seemed almost every member of the village was out, giving aid however the could. People Hammel didn't recognize were offering billets for the soldiers, bringing food and drink. The soldiers in halfway decent shape seemed overjoyed by the hospitality. Those who couldn't, included the man in Hammel's arms.

"This way, mage," he told him; "I saw the inn's location during my arrival, earlier."

"Clobnak gro-Grogork," the Orc stated. "That's my name, though most just call me Clob." He was following close behind Hammel, Hod and another Stormcloak behind him. "And you? What do others call you?"

"Hammel," responded the Nord, moving the semi-conscious Stormcloak along as quickly as he could. "Once a son of the Legion. Now, of nothing."

The Sleeping Giant loomed in the darkness, standing out almost like an actual giant stretched to enormous proportions. He took the steps as quickly as possible considering his load, listening as Clob and the rebel behind him followed suit. In the darkness, it was hard to tell who had opened the doors to the Sleeping Giant, but Hammel was immensely grateful to said person.

The inside of the inn was aglow with the light of candles and torches, a warm feeling radiating from the very woodwork. Hammel imagined, under different circumstances it would seem almost homely. Right now, it served a different purpose. The large common room had been rapidly cleared, tables and chairs shoved aside against the oaken walls. The floors were made of hard-packed dirt, the walls covered with a few tapestries. The most prominent of these was the image a giant asleep under an apple tree. In the far corner was an alchemy lap and, against the back wall, was a simple oaken bar.

In the room's center was a single table, clearly intended for food that now provided another service. A gray blanket had been laid across it, providing some barrier between the occupant and the rough wood. Standing behind said table was a middle-aged woman and slightly younger man. The woman had graying blond hair, pulled back into a business ponytail, stern features with the hint of several scars dancing across her face. She was lined from age, but hardly as much as a woman that old should be. Truth be told, Hammel found her oddly attractive. The man had his fair share of wrinkles; long dark hair working its way to his shoulders, hands stained from mixing various potions and concoctions.

"Who's dying the most?" He asked emotionless, his eyes taking over everyone gathered. "Orc, set that woman on the table. Delphine get him," he nodded at the man Hammel was supporting, "A big bowl of Horker stew. That'll get him up and running." Gazing past Clob as the Orc tenderly laid Raina onto the table, the tavern keeper asked, "What in Oblivion happened to him?"

Hammel pushed the man slumped over his shoulder onto one of the nearby benches, gazing over at the new arrivals Orgnar had addressed. Thangar and Natala held a man held between them. Half of the rebel's body was blackened, covered in some of the most vicious looking burns Hammel had ever seen. "A damn dragon!" Thangar snapped, expression hidden behind his helmet, "That's what happened!"

"Oldan got caught in a blast of dragon fire," Natala looked over at the barely conscious nord slumped between her and her friend. "Well, most of him anyway."

Hammel noticed Delphine's eyes perk up at the mention of a dragon as she brought the bowl of requested stew over to the exhausted Stormcloak. "Eat this," she commanded, shoving the bowl into the man's arms. The steel in her voice left no room for argument. Hammel removed the man's leather helmet as he took up the offered spoon, giving the tired rebel some room to move his head. Despite a shaky arm, the Stormcloak managed to shovel several spoonfuls of stew into his mouth, bringing a little more color into his cheeks. Delphine looked like she was going to ask Hammel a question before Orgnar spoke.

"A dragon?" His tone made it clear how much faith he had in Thangar's statement. The innkeeper finished moving Raina's garments aside, liberally applying some kind of foul smelling green ooze over a vicious blade wound. "There hasn't been a dragon in Skyrim since..." He paused, adding a liberal amount of the gray-green slime to his hand, "Well since ever." The nord man slathered the stuff up and down Raina's side, coating her injury with as much of the stuff as possible. Hammel got a good look at the gash Orgnar was working on covering; it was a miracle of the Divines she was breathing at all.

Thangar clearly wasn't happy about having what he'd seen, questioned by this mere tavern-keeper. "Oh?" He snapped. "Then how do you propose Oldan got this burn? Standing to close to a campfire?"

"Lock it down!" Delphine ordered, shocking everyone into silence with her commanding tone. For a smaller, older woman, she had quite the presence. "Orgnar, is she going to make it?"

"Hard to say," the dark-haired man responded simply. "She's lost a lot of blood. My salve should keep her from losing any more. Truthfully, she needs a priest. But since we don't have one of those, food and rest will have to do."

"Take her to the side room there," Delphine instructed Clob, gesturing towards one of the rooms. "She can rest here as long as she needs." The Orc nodded his thanks, taking up Raina with the delicacy of a master glass-smith working on his latest wonder.

Orgnar waved the other rebels forward, indicating that the burn victim should be next. Hammel sat down on one of the nearby benches, next to the stew eating rebel. The Nord leaned back against the wall, the warmth of the inn massaging his sore and battered body. He only meant to close his eyes for a moment but it had been such a long day and the inn was so warm.

Hammel Greymist wasn't fully aware of what was happening as he slumped against the solid wooden walls. His eyelids drooped and the sweet realm of sleep took him.

_"Keep up, Hammel!" The young Dunmer shouted, looking back over his shoulder at the Nord. Young Hammel didn't respond, just putting another burst of speed in an attempt to catch his friend. Behind him, Meat Pies puffed and huffed, the pudgy Argonian boy moving with the grace of a beached Horker. That wasn't the boy's real name of course, but the young Nord and his dunmer friend Oryn couldn't pronounce it. So, in true childhood fashion, they took to naming him after his favorite meal. They didn't care that Pies' family was rich and they were poor; those things don't matter to children._

_"I'm trying Oryn!" Hammel responded angrily, his twelve year old body pushing itself to the limits. "What's so neat anyway? I've seen every part of Solitude!" The ancient stone buildings around him looked down fondly, he'd climbed them all at some point. Yet now, Oryn was promising something neat. Was it apple pies left out by a careless cook? If so they'd be gone soon._

_"It better be neat considering how far we've run," Meat Pies complained between breaths, gasping as much air as he could into his bulky frame._

_Hammel nodded, "I hope so," his mop of light brown hair bounced amiably. Ahead of him, Oryn charged up a set of ancient stone steps, carved into the very side of the building before them. Whatever the Dunmer had in mind, it was atop the roof. The Nord boy followed Oryn closely, Pies bringing up the rear. The early snowfall had already arrived, tiny flakes falling from the heavens as the trio of friends scaled the abode. The cold didn't bother Hammel much, he'd experienced it all his life; his cold blooded friend's teeth were already chartering and his tail shaking._

_"Here we are!" Oryn gestured a slate-gray hand across the roof, "The jumping point." He paused a moment for dramatic effect before shaking his head of snowy-white hair. "That's what I've taken to calling it anyway."_

_The roof of this house was typical of any home in Solitude, flat and empty. There wasn't a chest or a drainpipe or anything at all that seemed worth the climb. "I don't see what's so great?" Hammel complained, sitting down on the rooftop's edge. The wind rustled his hair ever so slightly and caused Pies to pull his fur cloak tighter around his scaly form._

_"That's because you aren't standing over here," Oryn stated sarcastically. "Come on, stand next to me."  
>Grudgingly, twelve-year old Hammel got up from his semi-comfortable perch on the stone ledge, walking across the roof to his Dunmer friend. Standing next to Oryn, the Nord boy took a long glance in the direction the Dark Elf was pointing.<em>

_Just ahead, was another house, shorter than the one the trio of boys was standing on, the rooftop of the other second home almost daring to have a jump made for it. "See?" Oryn announced, "It'll be easy. We jump from this roof onto that one! We'll be like the Grey Fox! How neat does that sound?"_

_Hammel gulped once, looking down at the frozen stone six or seven feet below. "I don't know Oryn..." He muttered, "That's a long way to fall." The young Nord sucked in his breath, "I'm not as spry as you."_

_"Come on Hammel!" The Dunmer implored, "It's not that far. Pies could make the jump!" His red eyes looked at Hammel with disdain. "You aren't afraid are you?" He snorted. "Come on Hammel...Be Brave."_

AN

First of all massive thanks to DualKatanas for his excellent and in depth review of the first two chapters! Secondly a continued thanks to everyone who took the time to subscribe or review this story! Your support keeps it going. Finally I'm looking for a Beta-Reader for this piece; someone who'll read it over first and point out any errors. If you want the job PM me!

FUS RO DAH!


	4. Interesting People on the Road

**Chapter 4**

**Interesting People on the Road  
><strong>

"_The road is full of interesting folk; some friendly and some not. Keep one hand on your knife when you aren't sure who is who "-Quote from "Lucky Thlagmar" From the play "Kolgan's Hunts", act 2 scene 3. Written by Alegia Tubali, 3E 357. First preformed 3E 361._

_"Come on Hammel be brave..."_

Hammel stirred as the memory faded away. Something had woken him; not bad timing either. The Nord didn't like going into his past especially involuntarily.

It was the smell that he first noticed, warm alcohol mixed with nutmeg and ginger. His eyes snapped open, taking in the surroundings. He was still sitting on the bench, his back against the wall, the Sleeping Giant still around him. The inn now seemed abandoned, the lone occupant he could see was Delphine.

The middle-aged tavern mistress was standing directly in front of him, waving a tin cup under his nose. Based on the scent wafting up into his nostrils, it was full of warmed, spiced wine. In Delphine's other hand was a pewter plate, holding a hunk of bread and a chunk of goat cheese. "Eat, drink," she commanded, shoving her hand's contents at the barely conscious Nord.

Groggily, Hammel took plate and cup. "Do you do anything other than give orders?" He muttered, taking a sip of the spiced wine. It was absolutely delicious.

"Yes. I also sweep the floors." There was an almost unnoticeable glimmer in the woman's eye, showcasing the jest and humor she felt.

Hammel smiled a little; good to see she wasn't a Dwemer automaton. The bread proved to be just as good as the wine, rich and flaky. "Where's everyone else?" Hammel inquired, finishing his bread and going for the cheese.

"Some are still resting," Delphine answered, sitting down in the chair across from him. "Gerdur went over to Alvor's to get you fitted for some armor." Delphine looked him up and down condescendingly, "You'd be dead as High Kign Torygg within moments in that getup. Not to mention you'd scare a Skeever to death and bruise vegetables with that beard. So, once you're done with breakfast it's down to the river with you. You should have enough time to shave and clean yourself up before I have to shuffle you along to the smithy."

Shuffling bread and cheese down his throat Hammel stated deadpan, "No peaking."

"Can't make any promises," Delphine riposted with a smirk. "Good-looking men are so hard to find these days."

"I thought my beard frightened Skeevers and bruised vegetables?"

"I'm betting you're not half bad without it."

Draining the rest of the wine Hammel shrugged, "Wouldn't know. I'm not sure what qualifies an attractive man. I spend most of my time trying to look down the bodices of maidens." Scraping the rest of the crumbs from the pewter plate into his mouth, the Nord set his dishes aside on the table.

"Here," Delphine stated, tossing him a bundle. "You'll find a fresh set of clothes, a bowl and a razor. Put that to good use please. Now come along." The tavern-mistress stood, motioning for the warrior to follow her. Moving to his feet shakily, Hammel shrugged.

"Let's get on with it."

Breezing by him, Delphine moved with remarkable grace to the tavern door. The Nord followed his much smaller guide, stepping out into the fresh day.

It was a cool Nordic morning, with mist rising from the ground matching the crisp, sharp air. The town seemed to be mostly quiet, though the sound of a forge going could be heard. Alvor no doubt, working on the armor Hammel was to receive.

Delphine took him past the houses towards a slight bend in the river. It provided a nice easy point for Greymist to sit and clean himself off. The bend also happened to be hidden from the town by a nice cluster of pine trees, providing him with shelter from the passing gaze of any careless villagers. The bend in the river almost seemed to be man-made, with several large rocks providing makeshift seats and shelves.

"Here we are." Delphine informed him in a monotone voice, "Strip and deposit your clothes on this rock." Patting a large, flat stone that sat nearby as she did so, the Breton woman deposited the bundle of clothes and utensils next to the rock she'd mentioned. "I'll be around behind the pines if you need me."

Hammel nodded at the woman before yanking the blood-soaked tunic over his head. Standing bare chested in the cool morning breeze, Hammel glanced down at the river.

He saw a face staring back up at him. His face. Haunted brown eyes with the glassed over look of a man who's seen too much suffering gazed back at him, through him. A wide nose with a crocked bridge dominated the center of his face, showcasing its shattered and poorly re-knitted glory to the world. Two average ears filled out a face framed with shoulder length blonde-brown hair. A squared chin was hidden behind a shaggy beard and mustache, grown far beyond the man's personal preference. It was an unspectacular face, an unattractive one too. But it was his and it served him just fine.

Sitting on the riverbank Hammel shucked his fur boots with a groan. A quick glance at his feet proved one thing, he shouldn't have been walking. The color of his skin was hidden behind a mask of dried dirt and blood. A dozen tiny cuts decorated each foot, little tributes to the pain he'd endured. Dunking his feet in the river with a contented sigh, the escapee let the water wash away the assorted grime. Reaching for the razor the Nord unsnapped it, taking the straight blade up to his face.

Using the river as a makeshift mirror, Hammel started cutting. First the mustache he'd grown, then trimming his sideburns down to a more reasonable size. Scouring the rest of his cheeks and neck Hammel removed the majority of the rough beard, leaving only a tiny patch covering the area of his chin. A goatee style, his preference. Glancing at himself in the river again hr saw a very different face, a man with his fair share of old scars, but one who'd cleaned himself up and was ready for the future.

Stripping out of what remained of his pants and undergarments the Nord dived into the crisp blue river. The water was crisper than he expected, slapping his unclad body with a deep chill. He remained submerged, feeling the icy cold water strip away the blood, grime and dirt that coated his body. He remained underwater for a few moments savoring the feeling of revival the cold Nord stream gave him. The water washed over his left shoulder, shining up his unusual tattoo. The star of Azura combined with the mighty sword of Talos, signifying the man's admittedly strange religious views. The right shoulder was more simple in design, a human skull pierced from the cranium and out the jaw with a dagger. A few other marks decorated the man's flesh, each with little meanings, each a little part of his soul.

Emerging a moment later, Hammel clambered onto the beach, drying himself as quickly as possible with a blanket left behind by Delphine. The clothes fit him well enough, the linen shirt a bit loose but not really worth mentioning. "That looks better," Delphine stated approvingly as Hammel pulled his boots back on. "The shaving I mean. Nice little beard." Her tone was almost serious, just a tiny hint of sarcasm.

"Glad you think so," he riposted dryly, giving the boots one last tug. "I had you in mind when I picked the style." He held his arms out to his sides in an "can we get on with it?" gesture, awaiting her response.

"Come with me," the Breton instructed, "Alvor's finishing up your thank-you package now."

The Nord followed without hesitation, eager to get his hands on protection of any form. Anything that could keep him alive another day was worth having. More people seemed to be stirring in town as Delphine led him to Alvor's. The old woman from the previous night was back, still ranting about the dragon she saw, still utterly ignored by everyone around her. Hod was out by the mill loading log's for the day's shipment, an Imperial with a trim beard was opening up the general store and Frodnar played in the street with his dog.

Alvor was sitting by the grindstone his blacksmith stall possessed, sharpening one of the two swords Hammel had taken in his flight from Helgan. Gerdur stood next to the smith, arms folded crossly. On the arrival of the two, Alvor looked up from the grindstone. "Try on the armor, it's sitting on the table. Thanks for bringing him over Delphine."

"Happy to," she responded casually, "I'm going to clean up." With a polite nod, the innkeeper departed, no doubt to occupy herself with menial tasks.

"Your armor's made from boiled leather," Alvor explained as Hammel approached the table. "It can take a few hits, deflect some blows. Plus, it won't hamper you're movement or make too much noise. From what Ralof told me of your flight through the tunnels that's what you want."

The armor was magnificent. It was a dull brown color, with strips of black running up and down it. It made a satisfying rapping sound when Hammel tapped his knuckles against it. A few areas were studded with steel bolts for extra strength and support. The gauntlets and boots were of compatible quality to the armor in design, though more similar to the legion's standard equipment than the armor itself was.

Even as Hammel was pulling each piece of the armor on he could tell that it was fantastically made and knew it would serve him very well.

The armor fit just right, thank Zenithar for that. The lord of commerce seemed to be on his side today. It didn't just look good, it worked. Now for the helmet.

Unlike the rest of the armor, the helmet was actually made of iron. It seemed simple enough, skull cap like top, moving down into cheek and nose guards. The thing that Hammel most noticed were the two curved horns that came out of the helm, one pointing out from each side. The Nord suspected that the effect would be significantly intimidating.

Sliding the helmet on, the escapee buckled the chinstrap into place as Gerdur approached him. "I took most of the unimportant gear you grabbed during your escape down to the trader's for you. You'll find the hard currency you got in exchange much easier to carry and more valuable." The miller explained while simultaneously tossing him a small cloth bag.

Catching the bag one handed with a satisfying smack of leather on hide Greymist asked, "Do I get to keep the wine?" The miller nodded her answer. "Good." Slipping the bag of coins into the belt pouch Alvor had built into the waist of the armor, the Nord stated, "I guess I'm ready."

The blacksmith passed him back his swords, blades hidden within their scabbards, attaching them onto Hammel's belt. "I've also placed a loop on the back for a bow, in case you wind up purchasing one." Greymist silently cursed himself for ditching Ralof's once he'd come out of the cave. He'd have to find another one. Adjusting the gauntlet's ever so slightly, like a knight's squire, Alvor stated, "Gerdur told me what you're doing for us all. Taking the journey to Whiterun for people you've never met and I wanted to say...thanks for that."

Despite the blacksmith's gruff tone, Hammel could tell he was touched. The warrior had never known what to do with praise or thanks so he brushed it off. "I had nothing better to do. Besides, I'll most likely get killed."

The miller once again ignored the warrior's pessimism. "Follow the road out of town, simply stay on it and you'll find Whiterun. The journey shouldn't take more than two hours." Her voice dropped a bit, "Be careful. The roads are often populated with wolves and worse. Keep your wits about you and a blade in hand and you should be fine."

Hammel tapped the brow of his helmet, "Locked away. I suppose I should get going."

"I suppose you should."

Hammel exited the smithy with a "Thanks for the kit Alvor," moving back onto the little dirt road. The village was bustling now, chickens squawking and folk milling about. Ever so often someone would nod and thank him for what he was doing. Hammel ignored them; focusing on his task.

He was looking forward to being alone once more, doing this quest without aid or unwanted company. So he was unpleasantly surprised by the sight awaiting him.

Lianna and Clob stood in the middle of the road, Clob with a muscular hand wrapped around a simple wooden staff, Lianna with arms folded across an armored chest. "Why haven't you and your husband headed back to wherever in Oblivion you came from?" Hammel asked dryly, utterly ignoring the Orc.

"Ralof went back to Windhelm to report to Jarl Ulfric on our survival and await further instructions."

"Why aren't you going with him?"  
>Lianna's eyes flashed with a pained and furious expression. "Because he wanted me to keep an eye on you!"<br>"I don't need one."  
>"We don't care." The Altmer responded witheringly. "Furthermore, when you approach Jarl Balgruuf, a Stormcloak should be present. It shows we have Whiterun's best interests at heart."<p>

"How utterly political of you." Hammel turned his gaze over to Clob. "And what about you mage? Why are you here?"

The orc ground his staff against the road nervously, "I've come to Skyrim for reasons of a personal nature. I believe Whitrun is a good place to start my investigations."

"Why not?" Hammel walked past both heading down the road. "You can both come! But I'm not slowing down for either of you." The Nord continued moving briskly down the road.

Swearing furiously, Lianna took up after him.

* * *

><p>Lianna cursed all the foul luck in the universe that ended her up in this predicament. A man she knew so little about and an orc she knew even less. Didn't matter to her that Hammel was a Nord, or had sided with her husband or even volunteered to go on this mission; she didn't trust him.<p>

It wasn't just that he was pessimistic and sarcastic, it was that he wasn't Ralof. Her husband had his duty and she had hers but after being so close to death, separation from him was sickening. She was afraid for him, sure he had some others with him, like Thangar and Natala, but it was a long way to Windhelm and anything could happen.

"Let me ask you something mer," that blasted Greymist probed. Couldn't he just leave her alone? Always bothering her and trying to find out more about her.

"No you may not," Lianna snapped.

"How long did it take for you to learn to shout?" He pointedly ignored the woman's refusal. Would he not take no for an answer? They'd been walking for a while and she'd made it very clear she didn't want to talk to him.

"Five years," she ground out. "Five years of almost constant work, and that's all I learned. One shout, one word. Let me tell you, shouting? It isn't worth that kind of commitment."

"Seemed useful enough during the cave skirmish," he continued, "Why keep it a secret?"

"It's none of your concern!" She snapped bitterly, "Why don't you bother Clob for awhile? Leave me alone!"

"Touched a nerve," he riposted quietly. Finally, to Lianna's relief, that bloody man turned his attention elsewhere.

What gave him the right to probe into her past like that? She didn't bother asking him questions about his. She didn't want to think about the man she'd bothered spending those years learning that shout for. He visited her enough when she was dreaming, must she be remained of him during the day too?  
>Shaking her dark mane furiously, Lianna cleared her thoughts. Admittedly, part of her bitter mood came from the new sword sitting on her belt. It was Imperial make, far inferior to <em>Vengence<em>. Her old sword had been Orcish steel and enchanted with a freezing touch. Now it was sitting in some Legion stockpile, gathering rust. She sighed at the thought, patting the new sword casually. Once they reached Whiterun she'd trade in for a new weapon. Once they reached Whiterun she could take a carriage back to Windhelm and from there be reunited with her husband and Jarl. Once she made it to Whiterun a lot of things would change.

The road kept going on, the rooftop of Dragon's Reach, Whiterun's hall, barely visible in the distance. Another hour, maybe forty minutes of walking and they'd be there.

"The Nord's have a richer culture than I expected," Clob rumbled as he flipped through a book he'd been reading the past few miles.

Hammel snorted, "That's rich coming from an orc." Lianna had to admit, that was a good comeback.

"Admittedly." Clobnak gro-Grogork responded without malice or bitterness. "This volume on your afterlife is quite interesting. Sovngarde sounds like a very enjoyable place."

"It's the final home of great warrior Nords, and a selected few of Nordic quality," Hammel said softly.

The warrior's sudden change in tone surprised Lianna, it seemed sacred, haunted. He certainly seemed to have more respect for the afterlife than anything else she'd heard him mention in all their interactions.

"It's everything a Nord could want," the warrior continued solemnly, "Plenty of good food and drink, comely women and reuniting with friends long gone." His gaze fell, "I hope I'm worthy enough in the sight of Ysgramor to go."

"I'm sorry, Ysgramor?" The orc inquired, "I'm still unaware of him."

"The first human king," Lianna explained, "He led the original five hundred human settlers when they drove the ancient Alyieds out of Skyrim."

"The Heartland elves," Clob breathed, "They had all of Tamriel in their hands."

"And Skyrim was free first," Lianna stated. "And it shall be again," she murmured under her breath. It would have to be, she owed it to far to many people.

* * *

><p>"Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red!" Hammel sang, horribly off cue. The trio had been walking for a good while longer, the tedium of travel broken only by an encounter with a small pack of wolves, easily dispatched. The quiet had been getting on Hammel's nerves.<p>

"If you sing one more line, I swear to the Nine, I'll cut out your esophagus!" The elven Stormcloak hissed, her fingers wrapping around the handle of her sword viciously.

"Quiet!" Clob interrupted, pounding his staff on the ground to silence the bickering duo. "Can you hear that?"  
>Hammel strained his ears against the wind. The sound of several windmills going reached his ears, as well as the whiny of horses and the mooing of cows. According to his map, around the bend in the valley they currently occupied were several farms and a meadery, all on the outskirts of Whiterun. They were close.<p>

But there was another sound, shouting, roars and battle.

"Trouble!" Hammel snapped, dashing forward, drawing both swords as he went. The trees on both sides of the road disappeared from his vision as his focus rose. All that became visible was the patch in front of him visible through the slits in his helmet. He was more than man, he became iron. The world around him didn't matter, not the lightly falling snow, not the towering pines. All that mattered was crossing the path ahead of him, pass the meadery and find the location of the action.

His feet hammered down the dirt walkway, passing by the picket fence that separated Whiterun's domain from no man's land. To the right of Hammel was empty fields and roads, paths going off into the distance. To the left was several farms and windmills and smack in the middle of a cabbage patch was the source of battle.

On one side of the field was a giant, roaring furiously and bleeding from several wounds. The club clutched tightly in his hand was made from mammoth bone and the giant looked more than ready to use it. His opponents were several warriors of different sizes and genders. Hammel didn't really get a good look at any of them; one of the warriors held all his attention. From the size she was young, early twenties max, and her skin tone suggested Imperial. She stood currently frozen with fear, her sword fallen at her feet gazing up at the angry giant. The large green beast seemed more than happy to take the opportunity to squish her flat, raising his foot over the girl's head.

"Move you fool!" Hammel roared, throwing his weapons aside to run faster. The Imperial-made blades clattered across the dirt road, rolling aside into the grass. The Imperial girl didn't move, staring blankly up at the giant, fear evident in her eyes. She started stammering, staggering back a few steps. The giant paused a moment, ignored the arrow one of the other warriors pumped into his shoulder, then moved in for the kill.

Hammel put his entire body into the sprint, dashing forward with every ounce of strength he had. Time almost seemed to crawl as the massive creature raised its left foot to pulp the Imperial like an orange. Squashing lettuce under foot and kicking aside a massive clod of dirt Hammel arrived, flinging himself at the girl with all his might.

Momentum and strength were in his favor. He slammed into the girl, launching them both out of harm's way. The giant's appendage utterly destroyed a few cabbages and potato plants instead of human flesh, damaging what remained of the farm's picket fence in the process. Hammel shielded the girl with his body, holding her under him.

Then within minutes it was over. The warrior's dashed around, arrows flying and swords flashing. One of them jabbed a halberd under the beasts ribcage while another took to the giant's legs with a great sword. The giant let out one last might roar then toppled, shaking the ground with its landing. The dust settled, followed by an eery quiet.

Hammel turned the girl underneath him over, gazing at her face. She was definitely young, no older than twenty-five. Her eyes were a calming sea green, though currently boiling with fear. She had a typical Imperial skin tone, and dark hair. Most noticeably was the warpaint she'd smeared on her face, a simple arrow on her chin pointing down and slants coming off her eyes. Shaking uncontrollably she gazed up at her savior, a combination of awe and shame in her eyes.

Feeling awkward, Hammel shuffled up to his feet. "Move faster next time," he grumbled. "I barely made it."

"Halt traveler!" A very strong Nordic voice, female, called out from behind him. "Turn around slowly and tell me who you are!" Holding both hands before him in a traditionally neutral stance, Hammel turned slowly as per the instructions. The woman he saw took his breath away.

If Dibella herself had landed on Skyrim's surface the Nord probably wouldn't have noticed her. The woman standing before him, glaring his way, held a hunting bow with notched arrow pointing right at his heart. The shaft's tip was iron, no doubt very sharp and smeared with some kind of poison. Yet even past the weapon he managed to notice the woman.

Her hair was a flaming red color, cascading over her face like a waterfall. She had eyes of a pricing green, staring at him intensely. Three slashes of blue-green warpaint were drawn across her face like claw marks and her armor seemed to be similar to the clothing worn by ancient Nords, albeit lighter and with more skin showing. She was almost as tall as he, easily passing six feet, her body was a collection of muscles and curves. Looking strikingly intimidating and both hauntingly beautiful. "Athis, see to Ria," the woman ordered, not looking away from Hammel. The dunmer warrior standing beside her lowered his bloody halberd, moved past Hammel to see to the shaking woman. The Nord looked at the warrior woman who seemed to be in charge, answering her question as best he could.

"Greymist..." he breathed after a moment, "Hammel Greymist. Traveler and warrior." Nodding back over his shoulder at Clob and Lianna who were moving up to join him as quickly as possible, bringing his discarded weapons, "My traveling companions, Lianna of Riverwood and Clobnak gro-Grogork. We come to Whiterun with information for the Jarl."

"Travelers you say..." the woman mused, sniffing the air casually as if trying to smell the Nord's words and test their intent. She paused for a moment, sniffed twice more than stated in a tone no longer dripping with frost. "I believe you."

The woman shook her hair away from her face, shifting her scowl towards a more middling expression. Letting the bowstring return to a rest position, she returned the arrow to a deer-hide quiver on her back. "I am Aela the Huntress, member of the Companions of Skyrim."

"Hold on..." Hammel paused, "You mean...THE Companions? The warriors of Ysgramor?" His eyes widened slightly, "The warriors of fortune and glory?"

"So you've heard of us," Aela answered with a rueful smile. "Yes, we are the Companions, warriors of Jorrvaskr and fortune. Shield siblings who fight together for those who can't help themselves. But what about you Greymist? You come to Whiterun for what reason? Information you say? These are dangerous times for Skyrim and strangers aren't always wanted in Whiterun." Aela paused, glancing at the shaking Imperial girl, sizing her condition up. But, you saved Ria, risking your life in the process for no gain. That makes you decent in my eyes. But Whiterun is in a state of lockdown. The feud between the Battle-Borns and Greymanes has intensified along with the war and the Jarl is doing his best to maintain his city's neutrality. Hardly the most stable moment to arrive; whatever your information is it must be important."

"Trust me," Hammel said with a smile, "It is." He looked over to the city on the hilltop, mentally seeing himself there. "When I'm inside the city perhaps I'll pay the Companions a visit."

"Perhaps you should," Aela replied with a smirk. "The Companions might have use for someone of your skills." She waved to her fellow warriors, "Come! We return to Kodlak! The job is done!" The Companions dashed off almost as quickly as they'd come, running towards Whiterun at top speed.

"Friends of yours?" Clob asked casually, passing Hammel his blades back.

"Him?" Lianna stated scathingly, "A Companion? Not likely." The mer looked at the man's expression and read it correctly, "Though he wishes..."

"The companions are great warriors of fortune and glory," Hammel explained to the orc, cutting Lianna off. "They solve problems for people in exchange for coin and honor. It's a noble group, tracing their lineage all the way back to Ysgramor and his original five hundred."

"You seem to have great respect for them," Clob observed, stroking his green beard with one un-scarred hand.

"I spent most of my childhood hearing stories about their deeds; at one point I was sure I'd grow up and become one..." Hammel's voice trailed off. Staring into space after the Companions. "That was a long time ago. We should keep moving."

His two followers were silent as the Nord moved closer towards the city. The warrior threw a bulwark of silence behind him, making it painfully obvious that he was done talking. "What a magnificent city," the mage breathed, gazing at the ancient stone walls surrounding Whiterun like a shield.

"You don't get out much do you?" Lianna stated coldly, "Whiterun is a haven of cowards, led by a Jarl too frightened to throw his support to the true king of Skyrim."

"I remember Whiterun with fondness," Hammel stated casually, continuing up the mountain path leading towards the city. "The people within were kind."

The stone and wooden walls gazed down at the traveling band sternly, guards patrolling up and down it's length. Outside of the city walls, across the dirt road from Whiterun's stables, was a smattering of hide tents. They clustered around a roaring fire, with figures moving around wrapped in exotic furs. "A Khajiit caravan. Never thought I'd see one of those again." The Nord moved forward, hand reaching down to cover his purse. "I'm going to take a look; head into the city if you want or tag along, I don't care."

"I'm going to get a drink," Lianna stated casually, "The orc can come with me if he wants."

"I'd very much like to see the city," Clob admitted, gazing longingly at the walls of Whiterun.

"Have fun," The Nord murmured laconically, "See you later." Without looking back, Hammel marched towards the group of cat-folk, planning on grabbing some news and maybe a few provisions. He certainly wasn't planning on the encounter before him.

The leader of the caravan sat crossed-legged on a carpet in front on the largest tent. He held a tin mug full of tea on his lap, sipping from it absently. His fur was slate grey, with dark stripes. Hammel had seen that fur color before. "Ri'saad?" He asked, momentarily taken aback. It couldn't be... it was impossible.

The caravan leader looked sharply over. He squinted his feline eyes; then rumbled, "Greymist?" The Khajiit dropped his tea, "Ri'saad never thought he'd see you again!"

The Nord laughed, "Skyrim is a long way from Elsweyr." He paused, memories coming to the front, "A very long way..."

* * *

><p><em>"I can't breath in this damn bucket!" Hammel growled, yanking the helmet from his auburn head of hair with a snarl. "I'm sweating like an Ice Wrath in a kitchen out here!"<em>

_"Save it corporal," the Redguard Captain in charge muttered, stroking his dark beard, "It's nothing special. And put that back on!"_

_"For you maybe." The warrior adjusted the strand on his standard Imperial Legion issue longbow, "I'm Nord, heat isn't my thing." The scorching desert sun beat down upon the small detachment of Imperial soldiers, boiling them like the cream treats favored by young Nord boys. Ice cold sweat worked it's way down Hammel's face and through his goatee. His free hand clutched around the sweat-stained binding of his sword. Enemy's could come from anywhere in this desert. And as scout it was his job to see them first. Growling at his orders, the scout did place the helm back on his head. The heat emanating from the inside reminded him of the forge in Solitude. Hot and unpleasant._

_The other six or so men present with the Nord were of various races, a burly orc, a slim Altmer and a sullen Imperial, among others. They seemed all equally tired and hot, but they dealt with it using the legendary stoicism of the Legionaries they were._

_Hammel reached back into his pack, retrieving his water-skin. Draining what precious liquids remained within the container, the scout covered his brow with a hand, gazing forward in the desert. He may have been only two winters past twenty, but the soldier had seen plenty of action during the bandit wars...and before._

_"Captain Naveev?" He enquired, gazing beyond the brim of his helmet, "That caravan up ahead is moving awfully slow." The caravan he'd mentioned was indeed moving very slowly. Several Khajiit's were patrolling around it, one riding on a donkey, others pushing the wagon from behind. _

_"Go see what's wrong with them," Naveev ordered, waving the scout forward. "Get there now, we'll catch up."_

_Hammel slammed a fist against his chest in salute, then followed his Captain's orders. The scout moved as quickly as his studded armor and legs would allow. Leaving his small unit far behind, Hammel moved towards the caravan at a hustle, determined to catch the cart before it moved too far. Running was what he did, and he was good at it; soon his unit had fallen back to the horizon and the caravan was before him._

_It wasn't actually that difficult, with the speed of the cart and it's Khajiit occupants. As the scout drew closer, he could see that several of the traveling cat-men were nursing wounds and the wagon was damaged. "Hail!" Hammel shouted, putting both hands beside his mouth, "Hammel Greymist, Imperial Legion scout. What seems to be the trouble here?"_

_One of the Khajiits turned around, his fur slate-gray. "Greetings Legionnaire. I am Ri'saad and this one owns the caravan. Bandits attacked us a while back, killed two of this ones fellows and damaged the cart. We fought them off, but they'll return. Ri'saad hopes to make it to the safety of the city but fears the worst."_

_"Well Ri'saad, I'm an advanced scout for a unit of soldiers heading this way now," Hammel said in his most calming voice, moving up to the cart. "Other troops are inbound now, shouldn't be long..."_

_"Ri'saad!" A female shouted, "They return! By the Gods they return!" Hammel spun rapidly, drawing his bow from his back in one smooth motion as he did so. Sure enough, a mob of horses was galloping quickly towards the little band, throwing sand in all directions as they moved. The scout looked back over his shoulder; his unit was in the distance, hustling at top speed. The bandits would make it first. Right then, just him and a few poorly armed Khajiit until then. _

_"Talos and Azura preserve me," he whispered under his breath, voice shaking with fear. The Nord strung his bow hurriedly, notching his first steel arrow. "Unless you have a bow, stand behind me," he ordered. No one did, the cat folk rushing behind him What am I doing? He berated himself, I'm a bloody coward! Not some hero!_

_Shutting down his self-doubt and yanking the bowstring back against his ear, Hammel squinted. The pack leader was a massive burly orc, a huge ebony spear clutched in his right hand, murder in his eyes. The bandits drew closer, so much closer. Still the Nord waited, and waited, and waited. He wanted to make his first arrow count, to take one of them down before he entered Sovngarde._

_The orc snarled from horseback, blood-lust evident in his vicious gaze. Hammel took his shot. Even as the arrow soared through the air he was prepping his second. The steel tipped shaft punched through the hide armor the orc wore, knocking him clean off his horse. The animal scampered away as its master breathed his final breaths, blood staining the sands._

_Hammel's second arrow tore the ear of a breton, missing the kill by mere inches. Then the bandits were among them._

_One of the Khajiit's took a spear to the chest, impaled clean through. Others began crossing blades with the bandits. As for Hammel, an angry looking Nord charged him from horseback, swinging a brutal mace over his head. The scout threw himself aside, barely avoiding the weapon's swing. Pivoting rapidly, Greymist hammered his bow into the bandit's side as he past, knocking the thug clean off his horse. With a yelp of surprise, Hammel's foe hit the sand. Rushing him, the scout stamped his foot on the enemy Nord's neck. Imperial issue boot meet bone with a snap, leaving the bandit gasping and dieing._

_Discarding his bow, the warrior pulled his sword free, the sun glinting off the Imperial issue steel. Some of the bandits had dismounted, others still struck from horseback. Over the din of battle Hammel vaguely heard Captain Naveev shouting at his men to hurry. Help was on the way, just a few moments more..._

_A dunmer bandit swung his hand axe right for the Nord's head, screaming war-cries and spitting everywhere. Hammel threw himself backwards, the steel axe head just barely scratching his leather breast plate. Punching out with a free hand, Hammel's surprise blow caught the bandit right in the nose, breaking it and staggering his foe. _

_The Nord grabbed the bandit's shoulder and drove his sword clean through the dark elf's stomach. Blood gushed forward as the bandit fell gurgling into the sand. The din of battle was all around, not loud enough to block the sounds of an enemy rushing him from behind though._

_The scout spun at the last possible second, sword tearing free from the bandit in a shower of gore, a scimitar cutting right through the air where he'd been moments before. A turban wearing redguard was baring down on him, hard. The bandit outlaw's eyes were filled with hatred and the sun glinted of the scimitar in one hand and straight steel dagger in the other._

_"I will bury you in these sands nord!" The outlaw hissed, dashing forward. His sword and dagger sang, crafting a masterpiece of deadly fury. The Nord parried as best he could, clutching his sword in both hands. Sparks flew as blades clashed, ringing loudly even among the din of battle. The Legionnaire fought the bandit as best he could, swinging and parrying like a machine. Hammel wasn't sure if he could beat this foe, but he intended to go down like a true nord; swinging._

_The bandit roared, slashing right to left with his dagger, leering with triumph. The skin on Hammel's right forearm burned as the blade bit deep, scraping off the top layer of flesh and leaving blood dripping down. His blood, blood of the north. The bandit pressed his advantage, moving forward with crab-like precision. So focused was he on finishing off the Legion scout that he failed to notice Hammel's collages, particularly the orc with the steel morning star. _

_"For the Empire!" The orc soldier roared, bashing the redguard's skull in with one fierce strike. Cloth and bone flew in multiple directions, leaving the scout's foe crumpling in a heap. The soldier's of the Legion fell among the bandits, slaying at will. _

_"Friend Greymist! Help this one!" A cry rose from near the beleaguered cart. The scout spun, sword in hand, to see Ri'saad, clothes torn and bleeding badly, leaning back against the cart. Standing above him was a vicious looking orc bandit with a large steel great axe._

_"I'm going to get me a nice fur cloak!" He howled raising the axe over his head. That movement left Hammel free to drive a blade clean through his back. An opportunity he took advantage of. Dashing across the field of battle the Nord grabbed the axe handle, holding the strike back. With a free hand he drove his sword clean through the orc's stomach. The point burst out the front, staining Ri'saad's fancy clothes with the bandit's blood and intestines. Shoving the orc aside, Hammel turned, standing tall over the fallen merchant._

_The battle began to blur around him. He hacked and slashed at anyone who came near, beating the enemy away from the merchant until the remaining bandits fled back from where they came._

"A lot has happened since then," Hammel admitted, looking at the face from his past. "An awful lot."

"Come," the Khajiit beckoned, waving a hand into his tent. "We have much to discuss." With that, Ri'saad picked up his tea and entered the tent. Yanking his helmet free, the Nord followed, unprepared for what he'd receive therein.

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>

I'm still looking for a beta! It would really help improve the quality of this tale! Please PM me if you want the position. Once again, much thanks to DualKatanas(Name spelled correctly this time!) For his excellent review. Also much thanks to anyone who reviewed, favourited or subscribed to this story! It is the first of my works to crack 30 alerts! Thank you dear readers, you inspire me to keep writing!

Now: FUS RO DAH


	5. Whiterun

AN: I changed Naveev's ranking to Captain with a chapter edit on the advice of a reader. Now on with the tale!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

**Whiterun  
><strong>

"_Whiterun is of critical importance to the war effort. With its position in the center of Skyrim, control of the roads belongs to the who rules the city. Yet while Whiterun may stand alone, it is far from weak. The people dwelling within are hardy, surrounded by thick walls and containing many soldiers. Capturing the city will be hard, holding it without the support of the people impossible. So we wait, Whiterun must decide who it will draw swords for."- Excerpt from Legate Mattius' missive to General Tullius, supreme commander of the Imperial Legion Forces in Skyrim. 4E 201_

"You come to the city seeking aid from Jarl Balgruuf, yes?" Ri'saad inquired casually. The caravan master was still trying to put all the pieces together. He hadn't seen Greymist in years, the solider had saved his life, they'd shared a few drinks, then he'd left. The merchant couldn't believe that the Gods had brought this Nord back in line with his path. It was fate then.

"In a nutshell." Greymist finished his glass of wine with typical Nord gusto, not really savoring the fine example the wine presented of the brewer's art. Hammel said he'd found it in an Imperial keep. The Alto wine was remarkably aged, smooth and rich with flavor. Knowing he'd probably never taste something so exceptional again, Ri'saad was savoring every drop. He'd brought out his finest glasses and sat comfortably on his most expensive rug. Life truly couldn't be any better.

"So, the dragons are coming back yes?" The Khajiit shook his head, "That is very bad." He took another small sip of the Alto wine. "Well, bad for this one's life but not his purse."

"What do you mean by that?" The Nord asked honestly, obviously trying to read Ri'saad's expression. Despite the time Greymist had spent among the Khajiit people, Ri'saad knew full well he struggled with understanding their facial expressions. "When I think about it, I'm surprised you're in Skyrim at all. I know the cold is far from pleasant for your people."

"An astute observation." The caravan leader agreed, nodding his fur covered head sagely. "In truth, Ri'saad misses his home greatly. The warm sands of Elsweyr...they are beautiful. This is a cold, harsh land, ravaged by war and now dragons. Why would this one come here?" While his question was mostly rhetorical Greymist answered anyway. He shrugged his shoulders in a manner that humans considered questioning.

"The wisest merchant goes where the profit is the greatest," Ri'saad explained. "Even though I miss my homeland greatly there is much profit to be made in Skyrim. The war has frightened off most merchants and now with the dragons..." Taking a long drag of wine to emphasis his point, the Khajiit smirked. "So as long as Ri'saad doesn't end up inside the belly of such a beast, his purse will be very heavy on the trip home."

"I'm glad someone's succeeding at something," Greymist said, looking at his friend. "My time in Skyrim hasn't been the most pleasant."

"You are speaking, of course, of the execution?" The cat man nodded solemnly, "This one understands your frustrations. Khajiit are blamed all the time for things they do not do. If your spoon goes missing the Khajiit scum must have taken it! Terrible, terrible lies." Ri'saad shrugged, leaning back against his mahogany dresser. "But what difference can one make? So this one deals with the lies and the glances, hawking his wears outside the city for those with the courtesy to stop by. Yet, with the Khajiit being the only ones with fresh supplies, Nords deal with them simply because no one else has the goods. Very much profit in it, yes."

Ri'saad watched as Hammel stood, placing his cup back on the little loop on his pack and storing the Alto wine within its depths. "As fun as it's been reminiscing the past with you, I need to get in town and see the Jarl."

"It's too late now," Ri'saad pointed out, jabbing a furry finger at the slowly setting sun. "Jarl Balgruuf won't be seeing anyone for the rest of the day. When you enter town you'll need to find a place for the night. The Jarl will see you in the morning. However, before you go, Ri'saad has something for you."

Hammel clearly wasn't expecting that. The Nord turned to look back at the Khajiit merchant, not quite sure what to say. "You're giving me something? For free?"

"You did save this one's life." The words were simple, the deep thanks behind them obvious. "Not the other Legionaries, Greymist stood over Ri'saad and kept him safe. Ri'saad owes him a dept and he has something to pay with."

The caravan leader stood, moving across the rug towards a wooden chest. Hammel peered over curiously as the Khajiit pulled the deer hide cover off. Discarding the animal pelt with a backhand toss, Ri'saad popped the lock, forcing the chest open.

"It's in here somewhere," he growled. Several silver candlesticks, a brass plate and a Dwemer bowl flew out of the trunk at various speeds as the cat man hunted for whatever he wanted. "By the twin moons! It shouldn't have been buried in here that deep..." The rummaging stopped abruptly, Ri'saad leaning back with an item in his hand.

It was a box, roughly the size of a loaf of bread and covered with a green silk cloth. "Thanks Ri'saad," Hammel stated casually, "I've needed a box for quite some time."

Shaking his head, the caravan leader yanked the cloth cover away and slid the box off the lid. Greymist got a good look at its contents. Much to Ri'saad's delight, the Nord's eyes gleamed with excitement.

Sitting inside the box, on a strip of silk colored identical to the same fabric outside the case, was a dagger. It was clearly Dwemer in make, all straight edges and gleaming metal. Like most Dwarven weapons, it was a golden color and covered in various runes. The dagger gleamed in the light of the tent's candles, the edge clearly still razor sharp.

"It belonged to a friend, long buried in the sands." Ri'saad explained sadly, looking down at the dagger in the box. "He would have wanted you to have it. This one should mention, the dagger comes with a sheath that attaches to the arm of Greymist's choice, easier to draw and carry. Best of all, this very special blade comes with a powerful enchantment. It steals some of your enemies life-force and heals your wounds with it. My friend called her, "The Kiss of Death," or just "Kiss." May it serve you well."

Hammel placed the Dwemer weapon into its sheath, attaching it to his left underarm. If push came to shove, he could get at it in seconds.

"Thanks Ri'saad. For everything." The caravan leader knew Hammel's words were sincere. He was, after all, an honorable man.

"May your road lead you to warm sands," The merchant stated, giving his friend the traditional Khajiit farewell blessing. Ri'saad steepled his hands, bowing respectfully.

"And may the twin moons guide your every footstep," Hammel responded, matching the cat man's gesture. Clapping the caravan leader on the shoulder, Hammel smiled, "Don't go finding any more bandits now."

The Khajiit gave a broad smile. "Don't worry. This one has no plans for combat. Not for the rest of his days."

* * *

><p>Lianna sat in one of the Bannered Mare's rugged stools. A mug of Honningbrew mead rested on the bar before her, both her hands wrapped around its sturdy girth. She hated to admit it, but she was brooding. Brooding because she missed Ralof, brooding because she'd rather be with her Jarl fighting the damned Empire, brooding because she was stuck with Hammel Greymist and an Orc who seemed fascinated with the very floor tiles.<p>

She drank a mouthful of her favorite mead with a small sigh; life sometimes was about as appetizing as goat piss. Behind the bar, wiping away the grim with a soiled cloth, was Hulda. The older Nord woman owned the bar and had a kindly face. Her hair was brown and tied back in a business bun, her eyes green and her face lined with hard northern living. Yet those eyes maintained the sparkle of someone truly happy with her life. She spoke pleasantly to everyone who paid the tab, though when a beggar came mooching she had her regular's toss him out. Typical Nord mindset.

"Would you like another mead?" She asked Lianna casually, wiping out the inside of a mug with the same clothe.

"I'm fine for now thanks," the Altmer muttered, gazing into her golden reflection. Clob was across the room from her, rapidly jotting notes into a small journal while gazing at the inn's ceiling.

"Your friend is a lot younger than he appears." Hulda observed, replacing the mug under her bar and removing another bottle of mead.

Lianna looked at the Nord, raising a solitary dark eyebrow. "Oh?" Was all she said, draining the mead then pounding on the table. "I take back the comment about being finished. Hand me that bottle."

"Twenty Septims dear," Hulda responded casually, sliding the bottle over to the Altmer Stormcloak. "I've gotten pretty good at reading people," the tavern-keeper explained. "It comes from years of listening to folk complaining about their lives and pretending to care." Her thick Nordic accent gave the phrase an interesting punctuation, giving her harsh words a slightly lighter feel. "I tell you, that Orc hasn't seen thirty winters. Don't let the beard fool you." Hulda leaned down behind the bar, rummaging around for more mugs.

Lianna had come to that conclusion on her own. The Orc was far to young for that constant excitability. That, or he'd never seen a real city. Despite laughing at Hammel's earlier comments on Orc culture, the elf knew the Orsimer were far from simple folk. While she didn't know the ins and outs of the lifestyle they led, the elf assumed things like carved pillars weren't unknown to them.

She was moving the bottle to her mouth again when the bard opened his mouth.

"We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone! For the age of aggression is just about done!"

Lianna hated that song. How dare her Jarl be slandered! How dare they make light of Skyrim's truest son! The High Elf wanted to leap to her feet and beat the bard until he changed his tune, literally. However, she couldn't simply thrash a man for belting out a song she didn't like. It'd look bad for the future High King and his forces if Stormcloaks just assaulted whomever they pleased. She needed legitimate cause.

Then the Elf remembered Carlotta Valentia.

When Lianna and Clob had entered the city, both went towards the tavern directly, which, conveniently, was directly in front of the Mare's entrance. Right in front of the tavern was a market square of sorts, with two legitimate buildings and a handful of stalls thrown up wherever they would fit. Each vendor hawked their wares loudly, shouting about fresh meats, shiny bobbles and fine vegetables. Sick of dried trail rations and with her personal diet avoiding meat, Lianna was more than happy for fresh fruit.

The woman behind the stand was an Imperial, introducing herself as Carlotta Valentia. As the Mer picked up a carrot, a pair of potatoes and a green apple, the merchant babbled on about how she was a widow and how no man would come between her and her daughter, despite the numerous attempts to woo her. She mentioned one man in particular, the Bannered Mare's bard Mikael.  
>Lianna told Carlotta she'd talk to him, simply to get the woman to shut up. Honestly, the Stormcloak had no desire to help this milk-drinker, if she wasn't strong enough to deal with something as simple as an unwanted admirer she'd be no match for anything at all. The Altmer had no intention of propping up anyone weak, particularly Imperials.<p>

However, the woman's grievance provided Lianna with more than enough excuse to beat some sense into Mikael. Taking a purposeful swig from the bottle of mead, the Altmer pushed her stool away from the bar, standing with furious purpose. Leaving her fur gauntlets on the bar, the Stormcloak approached the bard, hands already curled into fists.

Standing next to the fire, Mikael looked every inch the overconfident, puffed-up fool Carlotta described. His blonde hair hung shoulder length, his body just muscular enough to avoid being called gangly. Sure enough he had a somewhat handsome mug, but the arrogant nature covering him like a blanket only made Lianna sick.

"Down with Ulfric! The killer of kings!" The bard sang, strumming his lute in an admittedly pleasing fashion. Stopping abruptly mid-song as Lianna strode right up into his face, Mikael gawked at the Altmer "Excuse me?" He stated in a less than pleased tone, "I'm in the middle of a piece right now."

"Leave Carlotta alone." Lianna's tone was solid as Skyforge steel. "Or it'll hurt."

Mikael laughed, he actually laughed right in her face. Despite the fact that she was wearing armor and armed, the bard laughed like he'd never heard a funnier joke." Leave her alone? Sorry friend, but that fiery widow is mine. She just doesn't know it yet." He sneered at her, "Are you jealous?"

Lianna hit him then, hard. Her bare fist struck the bard's nose with a bone shattering crack. Her ring of matrimony leaving a righteous imprint on the bard's face.

Mikael staggered back, dropping his lute to clutch his injured nose with both hands. The tavern went silent as people stopped their activities to watch the ensuing brawl. "I'll kill you for that!" He snarled, rushing forward with a shout he'd consider intimidating but really only amused Lianna. Swinging both fists with all his might, Mikael aimed for the woman's abdomen. The Mer sidestepped his clumsy blow, launching a sharp uppercut directly into the bard's chin.

Head snapping back, Mikael staggered a few steps backwards, bleeding and swearing. A heavily armored middle-aged Nord woman sitting in the corner raised her mug. "Five septims on the Elf!"

"I'd be a fool to take that Uthgerd!" An equally armored Nord man around the same age answered from behind his mug, "I can't afford to cough up any more gold!"

"You're such a downer Sinmir," the woman chuckled, finishing her drink with gusto.

Mikael, perhaps spurned on by the less than encouraging remarks, charged Lianna again, throwing a hay-maker punch. The blow grazed her temple, irritating the elven woman. It was time to end this farce.

When Mikael swung again, Lianna lashed out, snagging his arm. With a snarl she yanked down on the limb hard. With a yelp, the bard collapsed to his knees, gazing up at the Mer with a pain-filled expression of shock. Kicking down furiously, Lianna's boot impacted with the bard's chin, snapping his head back and driving him into the floor.

"Told you." Sinmer stated casually, emptying his mug.

Mikael groaned, not bothering to rise from the floor after the vicious beating. "Leave Carlotta alone or this gets worse." Lianna told him loud enough for the others to hear. Then she leaned down, whispering in the bard's ear. "Oh, and when you start singing again, choose a different piece."

* * *

><p>While Lianna was busy introducing the braggart to her fists, Hammel was attempting to get himself into the city.<p>

"I want to see the Jarl." He told the guards, clad in the uniform of Whiterun. Over-top of a chain shirt the soldiers wore an orange tunic, emblazoned with the symbol of the city, a white horse. The shields they carried also bore the same symbol and color scheme, adding to their uniformed apperance.

The duo from the Hold's private army obviously weren't amused, even with their expressions hidden behind fully enclosed helmets.

"Look kinsman," guard number two said condescendingly, "We don't always get what we want."

"Yah," guard number one agreed. "I want the magic flagon of ever-flowing mead and Adrianne Avenicci in my bed every night!" The guard looked at the ground and grumbled, "Damn that War-Bear."

"All I'm saying," guard two continued, "Is we can't just open these gates to anyone. We don't care who you are. Turn around, stay in Riverwood, the city stays closed."

Hammel didn't really want to play his last card. He wasn't sure how the guards would react; by Oblivion, he wasn't sure how anyone would react. But it was obvious what he had to do.

Letting the air in his lungs out with a small sigh, Hammel spoke two simple sentences. "I have information about the dragons. I was at Helgan."

That stopped the comments. "By the gods..." guard one whispered. "Is it true? You saw the dragon?"

"Rumors have been flying in every direction about what happened there. The Jarl needs to know." He moved towards the gate, fiddling with the lock as rapidly as he could. "You may enter Whiterun now traveler, however the Jarl is now finished with the court. You can see him first thing in the morning." The guard held his hand up, "No exceptions, not even for this. Sorry, but you understand protocol. Go to the tavern, get a drink, rent a room. Eight O'clock sharp the doors to Dragonsreach open."

Hammel simply nodded. As much as he wanted to march up to the Jarl's palace, kick the doors open and demand a hearing he knew better. He needed to convince Balgruuf to send aid to Riverwood; disrupting the man's routine was not the fastest way to his good side.

The ancient wooden gates swung open revealing the city in all its splendor. Large wooden homes and stores dominated the pathways. The city slopped upward, the path split in several directions. Even from his location at the gate's entrance, Hammel could see the keep rising in the distance. It stood proudly atop the hill Whiterun was built into, looking like the spike sitting at a helmet's peak.

Directly in front of the warrior, on his right, was the blacksmith. A blonde Nord in Imperial Legion armor, with a long braided beard was speaking loudly with a dark-skinned Imperial woman, the smith judging by her garb. Her arms were folded across her chest in a casual manner, but it was clear she had no intention of backing down. She was leaning against one of the wooden posts oustide the smithy, her back towards Hammel.

"The Legion needs those swords now Adrianne!" The Nord argued, waving his arms around. "The Stormcloaks have some of the finest smiths in Skyrim, churning out weapons day and night! The balance must be restored!"

The woman maintained her position against the post, her dark skin and hair almost blending in with the wood. _So this is Adrianne? Damn. That guard was right._ The Nord dismissed such thoughts, the smith clearly wore a ring of matrimony, off the table.

"I'm working as fast as I can," she told the Nord softly, remaining unmoving from her position against the support. Out of curiosity, Hammel followed the pole up with his gaze. It connected to a shelter, built against the smith's shop. The open area sheltered a grindstone, workbench, tanning rack and forge, burning hot. Hammel could almost taste the flames. Reminded him of a quarter-master he used to know.

"Work faster." The Nord responded agitatedly, hand not quite on his sword handle. "The Battle-Born's are paying you good money for this steel."

"Maybe you should get Eorlund Gray-Mane to help then?" Adrianne said casually, still unmoving from her post, but shifting one foot back into fighting stance. "Ulfberth and I can only make so many blades."  
>"I'd rather bend a knew to Ulfric Stormcloak," the Nord spat.<p>

"Well then Idolaf," the Imperial responded, "You'll make do with what I can give you." Turning towards the workbench, hammer in hand, the smith went to work, pounding out a scrap of metal.

Idolaf turned, grumbling about Imperial's and Stormcloaks. The man walked large, shoulders pressed out, hands clenched into fists, shoving past one of the villagers who had the misfortune to be in the Battle-Born's way. Hammel watched him stalk away without approaching. A Battle-Born. Hammel had, admittedly, very little contact with the great clan, but from what he'd heard that wasn't a bad thing.

"Hello there," he greeted Adrianne cordially, waving his free hand while removing his iron helmet with the other. The wind ruffled his hair casually as birds squawked overhead.

The woman looked up from her work, turning to face Hammel, hammer in hand. "Welcome to Whiterun." She told him pleasantly enough, giving a half smile. "I suppose I'm your unofficial welcoming party. We aren't closed yet, if you need any work done."

"I'm fine thank you," Hammel responded appreciatively. "But if I need blade work I'll look you up."

"That's all I ask."

Hammel glanced around the city approvingly. "I haven't been here in ages. Is the Bannered Mare still standing?" In his mind, he could taste the Mare's sweet mead and ale tumbling down his throat. Resisting the urge to lick parched lips at the thought, Hammel cleared his throat. "They always had the finest mead."

"The Mare still stands," Adrianna told him, jabbing down the dirt street with her hammer. "Hulda runs it now, Roggar passed on a dozen odd years ago." She turned back to her work, hammering away at the steel. Sparks flew with each blow, the Imperial putting her shoulder into each strike. Her steel would be excellent.

"So, why do you come to Whiterun?" The smith probed, "Seeking your fortune? Looking for work?"

_I'm here because I have no purpose. I'm here chasing a destiny I don't fully grasp. _"Perhaps I'm here for the fantastic steel of Adrianna Avinccii," Hammel mused with a smile, holding his helmet under one hand.

The smith gave a full belly laugh at that comment, chuckling away as she worked. "Very smooth; pity you already said you don't need any smithing done. Besides, Whiterun is home to the legendary Eorlund Gray-Mane, man's steel... well it's legendary."

"You're certainly easier on the eyes than Gray-Mane."

"Watch it there," the woman stated, her tone the equivalent of a verbal smirk. "I'm a married woman."

"My apologies."

"Accepted." The air whistled by for a moment as the woman pounded away, the Nord standing there quietly. "Enjoy your stay in Whiterun, hopefully success will find you in your ventures."

Hammel raised his free hand in farewell. "I hope you have many customers." The Nord strolled on toward the marketplace without await a response, breathing deeply through his nose. The air was rich with roasted meat and fine cheese. The vendors each hawked their wares, shouting out about quality goods and fine merchandise even as the sun began setting in the distance.

A massive tavern dominated the little square of stalls and shops, taking in the entire end of the road. To Hammel's left the path continued upwards toward the the upper district and portion of Whiterun. From his place in the center of the market stalls the Nord could easily see Dragonsreach, home of Jarl Balgruuf dominating the skyline and, mostly hidden from his vision, the mead hall Jorrvaskr itself.

The thought of those legendary warriors brought back memories of his earlier encounter with the band and Aela in particular. He was feeling a stronger and stronger pull to go to Jorrvaskr and meet with the Companions. Maybe, within those hallowed walls, he would find purpose.

Perhaps, but not this evening. He was tired from traveling most of the day, and the sprint he'd made to rescue Ria from the giant had drained the remainder of his reserve energy. He fully intended to take the guard's advice, rent a bed in the inn and collapse. He was halfway across the market square when he heard the woman speak.

"What's the matter? Can't stand the sight of a strong Nord woman?" The voice was obviously female and trying to project an aura of disgust.

Turning very slowly, Hammel moved towards the sound. Standing bold as brass in the center of the square was a Nord woman. Her arms folded across her chest in a defiant posture, staring down at him with as much disdain as she could. She was tall and most definitely attractive. The most distinguishing feature about her was the long, curly gray hair dancing down her back. That color seemed more akin to the beards of old men rather than the proud woman before him. Sure, she was easy on the eyes, but something about her harsh tone agitated him.

Hammel said the only thing he could think of at that moment. "What?"

This seemed to anger the woman. "I saw the look you gave me!" She snapped, pounding her foot angrily against the dirt pathway. "You looked down on me! Women are more than just baby makers and cooks for you men! We can do everything you can, maybe even better!"

Glancing side to side, Hammel rapidly searched for a way out of this conversation. The woman wouldn't let up, determined to get vengeance for a slight the former scout didn't know he'd committed. "Listen, miss..."

"Gray-Mane. Olfina Gray-Mane."

_Oh boy. A Gray-Mane, well I guess I can't tell her to bugger off. Pity._

"Listen Miss Gray-Mane." Hammel explained as casually as he could, holding out his free hand in a stop gesture. His other clenched the brim of the helmet, knuckles whitening. "I've had military experience, lots of it. During that time, I served with my fair share of competent and capable women. The last thing I believe is that women are inferior to men."

"Good." Olfina spat out. "Keep it that way." She turned on her heel and left him, probably to bother someone else. A few of the merchants and buyers looked at him sympathetically. Apparently, this Gray-Mane woman had some sort of axe to grind. Well she was gone now, praise the Gods.

Turning back towards his original destination, Hammel strolled up to the tavern.

A quick glance at the doors showed intricate carvings of horses covering every inch of wood. It must have taken a highly dedicated craftsman years of his life to make them. Showing respect for whoever put such effort into something as simple as a set of doors, Hammel opened them cautiously. As he gently pushed the portals apart, a blanket of warmth greeted him.

It was a simple tavern, homely and welcoming. A roaring fire blazed in the center of the great room, with two long benches on either side. A smattering of tables and chairs decorated the area, placed wherever the owner of the establishment could find space. The main room's right side was dominated by a simple wood bar, bolstered by several stools and covered in mugs and flagons. At the end of the hall, straight on from the door, were stairs leading to a second floor, no doubt the rental rooms. The left side of the tavern was haven to an opening, leading back into the kitchen and other staff related areas.

All in all, it reminded Hammel of home.

Closing the double doors behind him as he entered, the Nord went straight for the bar. Two of the three stools were occupied, leaving the one closest to the door the only available choice. As he passed the bench he noticed some of the bar's other occupants. One man sat by the fire, covered head to toe in armor, a massive steel great axe strapped to his back. Across the room was a heavily armored woman, face covered in age lines. A battered looking bard played a lute casually, ignoring the massive bruises covering his face. The two other bar occupants were Lianna and Clob, the Elf drinking and the Orc writing notes in the same small journal.

"How'd you get past the guards?" Hammel asked incredulously. After the hassle he'd gone through to enter the city, the former scout was a tad peeved at the duo's ability to beat him into the tavern.

Lianna smirked a little, "With a fat coin purse." She nodded her head at the mage, "His too." Finishing up what remained of her mead, the Mer cocked her head at him. "How was the cat?"

"Ri'saad?" Hammel responded. "Fine. Just fine..." He looked across the bar at Hulda, figuring her to be the keeper of the drink. "I'll have a Black-Briar if you've got any."

"One Black-Briar Mead, coming right up." The woman didn't bother looking up from the tankards she was swabbing out. "Flagon or bottle?"

After a moment's thought Hammel answered, "Flagon. If I need more mead I can always get a refill yah?"

The tavern-keeper gave him a wry smile, "Smart man. I'll see to it that you get extra foam." The sound of a bottle lid being forcibly removed was heard as the Nord watched the woman remove the desired vintage, filling the flagon with an expert twist of the wrist. Sliding the beverage across the counter, Hulda held out a hand. "Ten septims for the drink. I assume you want to stay the night as well?" She nodded her head at Lianna, "Your friends already paid for theirs."

Slapping down the required coin with a nod, Hammel knocked back the first mouthful of the sweet taste of Black-Briar mead.

It tasted just as incredible as he remembered.

He hadn't had one since he'd left Skyrim those long years ago. Out on the front, imports from his homeland were unheard of. Besides, anything they got out in that bloody desert was hot as Oblivion anyways. It made drinking anything other than water pointedly awful. He wasn't sure what to expect from that first taste of his favorite mead. Whatever it was, he wasn't disappointed.

"Apparently the mage is younger than he looks." Lianna said out of the blue, looking over at the Orc sitting next to her on the bar. Clob seemed too engrossed in his note writing to notice anything happening around him.

"Really?" Hammel asked, raising a single eyebrow. "That's a halfway decent beard." He drained the rest of the mead, signaling Hulda for a second. "Same vintage, if you don't mind."

"Any mage with half a brain and a portion of training in Alteration could craft himself a beard like that." Lianna pointed out coldly, as if talking to a small child. A small child with a mental disability. "Look at him. Does he honestly look a seasoned veteran to you?"

Hammel took a good look at the mage. Sure, he had a massive green beard, but there were other things too. His skin was very smooth and almost utterly free of scars, his eyes still had a young luster in them. Not to mention his constant note taking and study of the mundane elements. The Nord hadn't seen many Orcs in his life. Those he had had been hardened soldiers or bandits, not thinkers or youngsters. Did Orcs even have mages? He'd never encountered one.

"So?" Hammel said casually as another flagon of mead slid into his grip. "Thanks." Flipping the lip open, the Nord took a long draft of the sweet, cold mead. "Does that make any difference?"

"Of course it does!" Lianna hissed. "He's lying about his age! He won't tell us why he's here in Skyrim! We need to question him! Shake the truth out of him!"

Hammel just shook his head. "Crazy elves," he muttered, taking another swig of the mead. "Look, I've got to think about how I'm going to convince Jarl Balgruuf to send some of his troops to Riverwood. From what I've seen he needs all his men here."

Lianna pushed her chair back from the bar furiously. "I'm going to bed. Not that you care!"

Hammel shrugged, he didn't even answer. The Nord wasn't sure how long he sat in that stool, staring into the tavern's fire-pit. The bard was singing the old ballad, "The Dragonborn comes," and the mead was cold. For an hour or so, all seemed well with the world.

* * *

><p>Lianna slammed the door to her room with unbridled fury. Damn that human fool! Damn him to Oblivion! And she had to watch him. She, a daughter of Skyrim, alone in a city of cowards and traitors, with a lying pig and an obnoxious oaf!<p>

She missed Ralof terribly; the taste in her heart resembled sour mead. When she closed her eyes she could see his smiling bearded face. She could hear his Nord-isms, his sweet words and see his piecing blue eyes. Yet he was in Windhelm and she was sleeping in a strange bed. Alone.

A combination of mead, sorrow and rage drove the tears to her eyes. Streaming down her face, they stained her pillow, her emotions cracking under the pressure surfaced and she wept bitterly. Burying her face in her pillow, Lianna attempted to hide her emotional outburst.

Sniffling a few times, the Mer got herself back under control. _You've just got to see the Jarl, just see the Jarl and you can take the carriage back to Windhelm. You'll be reunited with your husband and your battle-siblings soon enough._

Despite the truth of her logic, it proved cold comfort. Gradually, the Altmer drifted off to a fevered sleep. Her anxiety boiled with memories, creating scattered visions of the past.

* * *

><p><em>The trees were so tall! Massive soaring pines almost like giants! It was so dark...<em>

_They were moving so fast! Why? She was frightened! Were there monsters? She gripped her ma's hand tighter..._

_The male Altmer held a beautifully crafted sword in his hand. It gleamed in the light, but something was dripping..._

_He was kneeling in front of her now, "Lianna." He whispered to her, "You have to be brave now okay?" He didn't have a beard. "You need to run..."_

_Where had the man gone? She was all alone! Where was the woman holding her hand? Her ma? She wasn't sure. She was running so fast, voices were behind her in the distance. Yelling and screaming! Drawing closer to her. She had to get away from the voices? Why?..._

_She'd fallen! She'd tripped over a root! She was laying face down, her head throbbing. Different voices drew near, they didn't sound like Mer, one a man and the other a woman. "She's an Elf!" The female voice said, "We need to put her down!"_

"_Where's your compassion Olga?" The man asked, bending down over her. This man had a beard. It was large and blonde, but not like the man with the sword. "She's just a child. I doubt she's seen four winters." He scooped her up in his arms. "We're taking her back with us."_

"_This is a mistake." The woman growled, "Those coming after her are going to want her back."_

_The man held her tighter against his chest, wrapping her in his robes, shielding her against the bitter cold. "It's a good thing Nord's don't give up easy..."_

* * *

><p>"Jarl Elisif," General Tullius stated calmly, hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. "There is no doubt in my mind. That the traitor Ulfric surely perished in the dragon attack. " He took a step forward, his armor gleaming. He'd made sure to polish it before addressing the future High Queen of Skyrim, appearance was part of every impression. Of course he had Imperial authority, hypothetically he could simply kick Elisif aside and run the war effort without her. But he wanted the people's support and the people wanted her. He was no brigand<p>

They called her Elisif the Fair. An apt description. She was young and beautiful, with a radiant smile and hair that flowed like the mead these Nords were so fond of. Tullius may have been old, but knew a beautiful woman when he saw one. Pity, that beauty was now mingled with grief over the death of her husband, High King Toryyg, something Tullius fully intended to put right.

"Thank you General," Elisif said, standing to address the court of Solitude's Blue Palace. "While it pains me that the Empire didn't personally deliver the blow, Ulfric's death leaves me some semblance of closure. Without Ulfric, the Stormcloaks will give up and return home. Then we can deal with this dragon mena..."

The doors to the palace flew open with a massive bang, cutting the Jarl of Solitude off mid-sentence. Tullius spun, drawing his sword as he did so, the only thought in his mind was to protect the Jarl. Behind him, Falk Firebeard, Elisf's steward, launched himself in front of her drawing his blade. Falk's steel longsword gleamed in the light streaming into the palace through stain-glass windows.

"Guards!" Tullius ordered, "Stop whoever that is!"

"General Tullius sir!" The guards respond from below, both standing in front of the stairs that led up to the court proper. "He's Legion sir! From Helgan!"

_By the Eight Divines? _"Send him up," the General commanded crisply. "But I want guards on him."

Falk moved slightly to his Jarl's side, so she could see this soldier with her own eyes, but didn't put his sword away. While Tullius admired the man's spirit, he doubted the steward was capable of dealing with an assassin.

Two fully armed guards led the man up, one on either side. Tullius got a good look at him, confirming that he was a Legionnaire. Hadvar, he believed. The man was a Nord and had been serving as clerk to Captain Dianna. The Captain was believed dead, seeing as she hadn't reported in anywhere. Her second was also classified KIA; yet here he was.

He smelled like soot, covered in burns and ash. His armor was dented and battered, his boots worn clean off. His left arm was held in a makeshift sling; he looked like he'd taken a stroll through the fires of Oblivion. _By Akatosh. I'm amazed he's alive at all._

"General Tullius," Hadvar bowed his head, slamming his right fist against his tattered breastplate in salute, "Jarl Elisif." He bowed to the Jarl as best he could, wincing in pain.

"Don't strain yourself!" Elisif cried, her eyes watering with compassion. "You've been through enough, don't strain yourself on my account!"

Hadvar bowed his head in thanks. "My Jarl, I have grave news." his voice was a monotone and his expression grim. "Ulfric escaped."

Those words sent a ripple throughout the court. Falk's face noticeably paled and the court mage, Sybille Stentor, cursed foully. As for Elisif she seemed to age twenty years in an instant, collapsing back into her chair. She managed to get out one word. "What?"

"I saw him my Jarl, leading a band of renegades out through a hole in the walls. I tried to stop him, but then one of the buildings collapsed, trapping my arm beneath the rubble. By the time I got free..." he shook his head sadly. "Ulfric could have been halfway back to Windhelm on a stolen horse."

The court was silent. Though the murmur picked up again when Hadvar collapsed on the marble floor with a clatter; no doubt from sheer exhaustion.

"Get this man some healing at once," Tullius snapped fiercely. The old general wasn't sure what to do with Ulfric but he'd take care of his own first. After he saw to Hadvar he'd plan the counter attack.

_Beware Ulfric, the hammer of the Legion is coming. You won't escape my clutches again!_

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><p>AN: This story has cracked 40 alerts! Thank you all! Never have I had such success with anything I've written! Thanks to DualKatanas once again for his excellent review and to everyone else who favorited or reviewed this little ballad.<p> 


	6. Simple Things

**A/N: This chapter was beta-ed by the incredibly awesome DualKatanas. Seriously, check his stuff out.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

**Simple Things  
><strong>

"_The longer I live and the more evil I encounter, the more I learn to appreciate the simple things."- Savlian Matius, Captain of the Kvatch city guard. Later, Count of the same city. Quote Circa 3E 433_

The morning light streaming in through his window woke Clobnak gro-Grogork from his slumber. He rubbed his eyes wearily; the traveler was tired. Too much mead and not enough sleep proved a poor combination for any mage. He needed the legendary Orcish discipline now more than ever. What would his da say?

Shaking his head roughly to clear the night's grogginess, Clob reached across the rented bed for his journal. Sure enough, it was still resting on the nightstand where he'd left it. Perhaps it was paranoid of him to fear it missing after a single night, but it never hurt to be careful. If he lost that journal not only would his notes be gone, so would his maps. Without those how would he succeed on his quest?

With the safety of his journal assured, Clob went on to the next task in his daily routine, prayer. Leaving his bed, clad only in a pair of rough breeches, the Orc knelt next to the bedside. "Lord Malacath," he whispered, rubbing a thumb against the small totem he wore around his neck. " Watch me as I conquer my enemies this day. I will prove my strength at today's tasks that I might be worthy of the name Orc." He bowed his head lower, whispering intently his declarations to Lord Malacath, Daedric prince of the Spurned and the god-ancestor of his people. "In all my actions, I will gain honor and strength, that my actions will heap glory on my tribe."  
>Rising to his feet, Clob retrieved a small silver bowl and a packet of Troll fat from his travel sack. Opening the window to his room ever so slightly, the Orc placed the bowl on the ledge, filling it with a small portion of the creature's fat. "Accept my sacrifice Lord Malacath, that I might draw from your strength in the day to come."<p>

With a quick spell, the mage sent a burst of flames from his hand, instantly setting the offering alight. The fat sizzled away, the putrid stench of burning troll filling the room as the fumes drifted out through the window.

Turning his back on the sacrifice, Clob began his mental exercises. Sitting crossed-legged on the room's carpet the Orc closed his eye imagining each of his spells working, conjuring sounds and smells into his mind. His breathing became slow, trance-like. A tiny portion of sweat dripped from his forehead onto his chest, casually tracing it's way off Clob's body, eventually hitting the floor with a tiny splash. He was the very picture of calm.

Almost unaware of his actions the Orc smiled; it was his simple morning rituals that helped prepare him for anything his this strange land. He wasn't sure how he'd survive without them.

Clob wasn't aware of the passage of time. Ten minutes could have passed or ten seconds, it made no difference to him. What mattered was the magicka that he could feel flowing in his veins, the energy that coursed throughout his body. He was ready.

Standing, the mage fetched his boots and robes, dressing himself for the day's exertions. With a trip to the Jarl planned, the Orc intended to look presentable, even if Balgruuf wasn't who Clob was headed to Dragonsreach for. There was someone else he needed to see, someone who should be able to point him in the right direction. Hopefully, he'd be courteous to the magic user and aid him, without too many questions asked.

Packing away his journal, the sacrifice bowl and everything else he'd left out within the confines of his pack, Clob picked up his staff and headed down the stairs. Whistling as he went, Clob was quite pleased with himself. With was step closer to his goal today was looking to be a highly profitable day.

* * *

><p>Hammel wasn't in nearly as fine a mood.<p>

He splashed the water on his face again, confirming his waking state. Gripping the wooden dresser tightly, he gazed into the mirror with blood-shot eyes. He'd had that nightmare again, the one in the Dwemer ruin. Ever since his comrades pulled him out more dead than alive he'd had it about once a week. That ruin wouldn't let him go.

Yet this time it felt different. He couldn't place his finger on it, but something had happened that wasn't the norm. It left a foul taste in Hammel's mouth. Variables within his own dreams disturbed him far more than he cared to admit. What was it his mother said? Dreams are warnings of the future or memories of the past. She'd told him that Lady Azura, Daedric mistress of twilight, ruled over the strands of his dreams and kept his memories warm in her hands. For her faithful she sometimes would proved images of the future, warning of the dangers to come.

Whatever Azura was warning him of, Hammel knew he wasn't ready. So rarely did the Daedra become involved with the affairs of mortals. If they did, it was never pleasant. Not even Lady Azura, benevolent as she was, sent even a fraction of her power in the direction of a worshiper without the expectation of suffering and trouble. The former scout wasn't sure he could handle this. Extra prayers to Talos for strength and Azura for protection would be needed.

That, and more ale, nothing helped prepare a warrior like alcohol. The details of the dream continued to elude him, frustrating the Nord to no end. There was hardly any point of receiving a warning he couldn't act on.

Drying his face with a towel left on the oaken dresser, the ex-Legionnaire packed up and exited the rented room. His armor fit comfortably, his pack full and helmet attached to the bundle with several strips to leather. He looked like any other traveling warrior ready for the challenges of Skyrim.

Descending the stairs, Hammel took in everyone present. Aside from Clob and Lianna, only Hulda, her tavern wench, a sultry Redguard and the bard were still present. Mikael looked far healthier that he did previously his bruises having faded to almost nothing. No doubt thanks to a healing potion of two. Sitting down at the bar, the Nord looked the Mare's owner in the eye. "What should a man who's about to see a Jarl eat for breakfast?"

She raised a solitary eyebrow. "If that man is you, I'd recommend, two fried eggs, a leg of goat roast, some cheese, bread and plenty of mead." She looked across the tavern, yelling at the wench with her thick Nordic voice. "Saadia! Get on it girl!"

"Yes Hulda," the Redguard responded, swaying back to the kitchens gracefully.

Hammel watched her curiously, "You don't see many Redguards in Skyrim," he observed casually while paying for his breakfast. "Where'd she come from?"

Saadia was petite, light on her feet and attractive. Her black hair was cut around her shoulders and her dark skin shone like polished mahogany. The Redguard fiddled around in the kitchen, from the shadow's cast on the wall she appeared to be frying the eggs for the Nord's breakfast.

"Not sure," the tavern misstress admitted. The Nord looked across her tavern at the kitchens. "She came into Whiterun one day, from Hammerfell I believe. Poor girl didn't have a coin to her name." Hulda gave a dry smile, "Just because she had no worldly possessions didn't mean she was useless. Girl has a strong work ethic, I hope the Mare's next owner will treat her right."

The former Legion scout nodded absently, looking kindly at the arriving platter. Saadia had returned from the kitchens, and she'd brought breakfast.

"So tell me," Hammel asked the keeper of the Bannered Mare, wolfing down the fresh bread with the speed of a hungry Slaughterfish; his dream had left him famished. "How is the Jarl? Is he even-tempered?"

"Balgruuf?" Hulda asked, looking momentarily at the Nord for a fraction of a second. "Is he even-tempered? Aye, he's a good ruler and man. Some may have blown his temper out to legendary status, but he's really only wants to take care of his people. So long as you don't waist his time and don't bring any danger to Whiterun he'll be civil enough." The she Nord took his now empty tankard and refilled it, waiting on the plate, which was fighting a losing battle with the hungry Nord. The goat was roasted to perfection, seasoned with a few handfuls of some smokey-flavored spice and a touch of sauce. Overall, it made for a delicious combination.

"I'll be brief then." The warrior decided, taking the mug back from Hulda, now filled to the brim with foaming mead. "Wouldn't want to give him any reason to think poorer of me or Riverwood." Draining the tankard, the Nord slammed the now empty pewter receptacle onto the bar. Sliding a handful of gold across the rough surface, Hammel stood casually. "Alright, let's do this then."

Turning across to the other two at the bar, each of whom had finished their breakfast, Hammel addressed them, "I assume you're coming with me to see the Jarl?"  
>Lianna simply nodded; Clob however spoke up. "I'm heading up to Dragonsreach with you, however, there are others in the castle I wish to speak with."<p>

"Let me guess," Lianna stated witheringly, "No names?" Her words dripped with sarcasm and bristled with aggression.

The Orc shook his head, one hand resting casually on his quarterstaff, though Hammel doubted he'd use the thing in a fight. "My business is private."

"Not to me."

"Enough," Hammel announced civilly, retrieving his knapsack from its position on the floor. "I'm moving out now. Anyone who wants to come along is welcome." Fitting both arms through the straps on his pack, the former Legionnaire made his way towards the door, a determined expression written across his face. He'd crossed the room before Clob joined him, pulling up the hood on his robes as he came. It wasn't until the warrior's hand actually rested on the door-handle that Lianna followed suit.

Pushing the door open gently, the Nord stepped out to greet the new day.

Already bustling with activity, the marketplace was already active even though it was only seven in the morning. The Bosmer meat vendor was laying some fresh cuts out on his stand, whistling as he did so. Several buyers were arriving already, a posh looking Redguard, an attractive young female merchant of Nordic stock and, Hammel shuddered, Olfina Gray-Mane. Apparently the feminist Nord hadn't spotted him yet and he intended to keep it that way.

The trimade it halfway across the cobblestone area, past the crowd preparing for the bustle of market, when the produce vendor pipped up. "It's you! Thank you so much!"

Hammel spun around, bewildered at the undeserved praise. However, for once he wasn't the center of attention. No, the Imperial woman looked right at Lianna, scrambling out from behind her stall to greet her.

She was typical for an Imperial, long dark hair, olive colored skin and soft features. She was young, no older than thirty, though her face bore the lines of rough living. Carlotta had been through some sort of trouble, that much was certain.

"Mikeal came to me last night when I was in the tavern, I was prepping for another come-on, when he apologized and told me he'd never bother me again!" The vendor grabbed Lianna's right hand with both hers, shaking it vigorously. "Thank you!"

The Altmer looked petrified. "Um, you're welcome Carlotta," she replied slowly, "It wasn't any trouble."

"Here! I have something for you!" Carlotta reached into the satchel on her belt, withdrawing a small hide bag. "Some coin for your trouble. It isn't much, but it's the least I could do."

Lianna was starting to shake her head, began to refuse the money, but the Imperial pressed the bag firmly into her hand. "I insist. Take it, Divines bless you."

The woman seemed to age backwards in an instant, a smile spreading across her face. Whistling a tune, Carlotta practically skipped back towards her fruit stand. "Come on baby!" She called to the twelve-year old girl across the street, no doubt her daughter. "Today's going to be a good day."

Lianna stared after her a moment, then, very carefully put the bag into her pouch. The trio left the market area in silence, the Stormcloak brooding over that had just happened.

Walking up the stone stairs that separated the wind-district of the city from the Cloud District, the most distinguished part of town, the travelers took in the splendor before them. The Cloud District was home to Dragonsreach and Jorrvaskr, as well as the city's finest buildings. It clearly stood apart from the previous two sections of Whiterun. Each building the trio could see was at least three stories tall, carved from the finest woods and covered with intricate designs. Unlike the lower end hovels each building within the cloud-district was shiny and clean, almost gleaming in the light. A beautiful view of the surrounding mountains could be seen from any point in the area, resembling a living canvas. The district was built in a wheel shape around a massive tree, though it was slowly withering; straight on from where they were standing was the massive stone steps leading up to Dragonsreach. On their right, the mead hall, Jorrvaskr, dominated a small rolling hill, the other areas were filled with fine buildings with one exception. In a small area between the paths to Dragonsreach and the Mead Hall was a massive stone shrine to Talos.

It was a perfect representation of the greatest hero of man; he who had become a god. Carved from solid rock and chiseled with loving devotion, the image of Talos was perfect. Capturing every detail of what made Talos lord of the skies. His holy armor, magnificently trimmed beard and exalted features all preserved forever in unrelenting stone. The image was leaning confidently on his great sword, said blade impaled in the chest of a fallen dragon. Talos' expression was firm but not unkind, like a father who might never say, "I love you," but utterly believed it, rushing in without pause to defend his children.

At the sight of Lord Talos Hammel almost bent to one knee instinctively, awe filling his mortal body. Lianna inclined her head respectfully, even Clob, one who clearly didn't pray to man's greatest king and champion nodded respectfully. "Whoever created this deserves all the coin I can give them," the Nord whispered under his breath, bowing his head and folding his hands in reverence.

Maybe it was due to the awe caused by the statue's presence, but for some reason, Hammel missed the man standing before the shrine. He was swathed in the robes of a priest of Talos, dark-blue color garments, like the night sky during a storm. The robes had a patch of bright white stitched across them, like bolts of lighting cleaving those skies in two. His hands were held up above his head in a gesture of exhortation, the robes obscuring his features. From the sound of his voice he was clearly middle-aged.

"We are but maggots! Rotting in the filth of our own corruption!" He practically screamed at the air around him. He pumped his hands dramatically, waving them about empowered. "Talos demands your obedience and your loyalty! Rise up and fight Nords!"

"Move on," the ex-scout told the others coldly, "We don't have time for this." His momentary awe at the statue shattered by the crooning of its priest, the Nord pressed on. Perhaps he had misjudged the man, perhaps he was simply devoted. That said, Hammel didn't care enough to wast his time finding out.

Not bothering to see if his companions were actually following him, Hammel began his assent up the sharp, protruding steps to Dragonsreach. Each of his movements were infused with purpose, each stride taking him closer to his goal.

He didn't notice the waterfalls next to the staircase, didn't see the loving detail taking to carve these steps out of the mountain side. He hardly noticed that his feet had moved from stone steps to the wooden drawbridge before the great hall. Crossing that same drawbridge without hesitation, Hammel stalked past the guards standing next to Dragonsreach's entrance. In some way those doors reminded him of the Mare, like these doors were the elder brother of the ones on the little tavern. They were carved in a similar manner; wooden horses danced and pranced across the entire surface of the entrance. The great brass door-handles were molded to resemble proud twin stallions, legs outstretched defiantly.

Hammel didn't spend much time on these details as he placed one hand on each handle, shoving with all his might. Both doors swung open revealing the great hall in all its glory. In the center of the ancient room a roaring fire blazed. Two long tables groaning under the weight of food and furnishings flanked the blaze, standing before the proud wooden pillars that held up the hall's ceiling. The walls and floors were made from the finest oak and pine, giving off a pleasant smell. At the opposite end of the chamber was the Jarl's throne and mounted above it the massive skull of a long dead dragon. Behind the throne was a set of stairs leading up to another presently unseen area of Dragonsreach. Likewise, each side of the main chamber contained a passageway, leading to points unknown. Hammel himself was standing in a small, carpeted foyer, separated from the main chamber by another flight of steps, though these were made of wood and significantly shorter than the stone entrance.

The sound of doors opening and closing behind him mixed with ragged breathing informed him that Clob and Lianna had caught up, shoving past an old woman sweeping dust in the foyer while doing so. She swore at them angrily, shaking her fist and cursing their ancestry before returning to her work.

Glancing backwards the former Legion Scout saw the Altmer smooth out her Stormcloak tunic, proudly displaying her allegiance to the world and any who might be watching.

_Political maneuvering achieved._

With the mage on his left and the rebel on his right, Hammel took those wooden steps two at a time, left hand on left sword pommel and the right holding onto his pack. Reaching the main chamber proper, he got a good look at the Jarl and his court. Balgruuf reclined in his throne while several others spoke intently at varying levels of sound.

The Nord moved beyond the raising, advancing on the Jarl with purpose in each step. He'd have crashed the meeting of the Jarl and his advisers without warning, were it not for the Dunmer.

She advanced on him with grim determination in her eyes. A steel sword sat drawn in her hand, light reflecting with a gleam off its razor sharp point. Her hair was dull red, almost the color of blood and drawn back behind her head in a pony-tale. Her features were harsh and lined, several scars intermingling with the war-paint decorating well defined cheekbones. She was wiry, almost whip thin, every limb corded with muscle. The Dark Elf was protected by a full suit of supple leather armor, similar to Hammel's own, though the Dunmer's was decorated with swirling patterns much like the war-paint on her face. The elf's knuckles bore numerous scars and nicks, a sure sign that this woman wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty.

Pointing her longsword directly at Hammel's throat, the Dunmer spoke in a firm voice. "Halt. Take another step closer and you'll regret it. Now, who are you? Why do you approach Jarl Balgruuf during this critical session of court?" Her words came out in a crisp no-nonsense, fashion.

In response to the pointed blade Hammel's fingers tightened around the pommel of his own weapon. While the Nord knew he'd come to Dragonsreach to secure aid for Riverwood the warrior portion of his brain refused to shut down. If it came to swordplay he sure as Oblivion wouldn't be the last one to the party.

Disguising his drop to combat stance with a nod of the head, Hammel addressed the Dunmer. "I'm Hammel Greymist. These are my traveling companions, Clobnak gro-Grogork and Lianna of Riverwood. We've come with information for the Jarl."

"Jarl Balgruuf couldn't possibly be interested in anything you have to say..."  
>"It's about the Dragons," Lianna butted in, cutting of the other mer mid-sentence.<p>

The Dunmer went silent for a moment, her mouth closing until it was little more than an angry line. Gazing at them for a moment, the Dark Elf's eyes roamed over their faces, as if trying to mentally pull any lies from their brains. Apparently satisfied, the female sheathed her blade in one fluid motion. "Go ahead, bring your news to the Jarl. But I've got my eyes on you lot."

Stalking back to her position at the Jarl's right hand, the Dunmer let them pass. Taking one deep breath to calm his nerves, Hammel approached the throne. He'd been in life or death situations before, plenty of them, with the scars to prove it. Yet he was out of his element here. He knew nothing of political ins and outs, he was no politician. All he was a soldier old beyond his mid-thirty odd years, with an unhealthy fondness for women.

"All I'm saying, my Jarl," a sleazy looking man stated casually while rubbing his hands together, "is that the rumors might not be true. We simply need to wait." The man who'd spoken those words was balding, with a trim little black beard covering rather bland features. He was dressed in purple finery, probably costing more than every septim the three travelers had combined. He clearly wasn't a Nord and, on top of that, he was no warrior. He was a bureaucrat, an adviser, but no son of Skyrim.

He was the polar opposite of the man standing across him him. The bureaucrat's opponent in this argument was a burly man, clearly of Nord blood. His head was shaven clean, the self-imposed baldness complimented nicely by a thick brown beard, knotted in a warrior's fashion. Various blue stripes of war-paint coated his face. Tree-trunk like arms were crossed across an chainmail shirt, made from shining metal and some kind of animal bone. The rest of the warrior was covered in fur and steel, a greatsword easily the size of a small child rested on his back, looking far more intimidating than the adviser's elven dagger.

"What would you have us do, Proventus? Wait until Riverwood is burnt to the ground and send our men over to pick up the mess?" The massive Nord snarled, glaring across at the bureaucrat.

"It isn't that simple, Hrongar!" Proventus argued, holding his smooth hands up like some kind of ward. "If General Tullius thinks we're even dreaming of join Ulfric's rebellion he'll march into Whiterun and occupy it with Legion forces. Is that what you want?"

"Those people out there are my kin, Imperial! And with a dragon on the loose..."

"We don't know that there even is a dragon."

"Silence!"

The new voice was firm, male and Nord. Jarl Balgruuf the Greater stood up from his throne to his full six and a half feet. The Jarl had long golden hair in both the form of a full drooping beard and long tresses of hair. His features weren't unpleasant, yet they were firm. Dark brown eyes took in the faces of both members of his court. The robes of a Jarl covered him, all fur and linen, complimented by a circlet of solid gold with inlaid moonstones. While Balgruuf lacked Hrongar's pure bulk he was hardly weak. His body was laced with scars won in many battles, without any sleeves on his tunic the sinewy muscle of his arms could clearly be seen. Balgruuf knew his way around a blade.

"Hrongar," the Jarl of Whiterun began, his voice much calmer than either of his courtiers. "I will not stand by while my people are in danger, but I haven't kept out of this damn war by being rash. I'll move the men if the need arises."

"The Jarl is right in this regard," Proventus sneered, looking down his hawk-like nose at his much larger opponent. "Even your sword wouldn't be enough to turn the tide against the entire might of the Empire, which I assure you, would fall on this city the moment we take one wrong step." The steward puffed out his chest, tapping fine leather boots on the oaken floor. "Why, I imagine the story about the dragons is little more than an elaborate trick, intended to frighten those Stormcloaks into submission."

"The dragons are real."

Hammel wasn't sure why he'd taken that moment to speak. He'd been silent up until that point, standing quietly before the small dais upon which Balgruuf's throne sat, the warrior's back to the fire. It seemed clear to him that a little bit of drama might be what was needed to get his point across.

Proventus didn't seemed pleased at the interruption. "And who are you?" The finely dressed man sneered exquisitely. He took a deep breath through his nose, expression souring, as if Hammel had dragged some physical stench into the court room.

"My Jarl," Hammel addressed Balgruuf directly, dropping to one knee, bowing his head. "I come before you on behalf of Riverwood. The village cries out for aid, they seek your protection."

Balgruuf didn't speak. Instead the Jarl of Whiterun sat back in his supple wooden throne. Resting his chin in one hand, Whiterun's leader gazed directly at Hammel. "So, are the rumors true? Was it really a dragon at Helgen?"

"It was." Lianna stated firmly, her voice almost flinty. "We three barely escaped with our lives."

"My lord," Proventus began again, waving a hand at the trio. "This woman is both an elf and a Stormcloak. Her political stance casts her words under an unpleasant light."

"It's true." Hammel added his words to the mix, not bothering to rise from the floor. The warmth from the fire tickled his neck but brought no mirth to his soul. The Jarl had to be made to see this threat. "The Imperials were in the middle of an execution, preparing to remove the heads of several Stormcloaks, including Ulfric himself. Then, right before the headsman claimed his second pair of boots, the ground shook, the sky shattering under a furious roar. A dragon arrived, spewing fire and death." Hammel let his words hang in the air a moment, letting the mental image soak into his listeners. "My Jarl, the dragon razed Helgen to the ground."

A murmur went through the court, low and whispered, as various minor nobles and servants asked each other in hushed tones if it was possible. If Helgan really could be destroyed. And a dragon? Could dragons have really returned to Skyrim since the ages of myth? It wasn't possible was it?

Holding up a hand for silence, Balgruuf the Greater killed those hurried whispers. "Look at me." Hammel raised his head from its previously bowed position, locking gazes with the Jarl. "You saw this dragon with your own eyes then?"

"I did, Jarl Balgruuf."

"That settles the issue." The Jarl turned his his throne, his hand now curled into a fist, the other now noticeably resting on the pommel of an ornate sword. "Irileth," he addressed the female Dunmer who'd stopped Hammel earlier. The woman turned from her position at the side of Balgruuf's throne to look directly at him. "Send a detachment of my finest troops down to Riverwood immediately. If that dragon shows its face again, we'll be ready."

Slamming her fist against her boiled leather chestpiece in an Imperial salute, Irileth nodded, "It shall be down at once, my Jarl."

Even as the Dunmer was moving off to complete her task, Balgruuf was motioning to the burly Nord. "Hrongar, see to it that the walls are properly reinforced, then see about recruitment. With a dragon on the loose we'll need every sword we can get."

"I see to it personally, brother." Hrogar bowed, then spun on his heel, moving out of hall at a jog, determined to get the Jarl's work done.

"My lord," Proventus began, his words bordering on sarcasm. "Is this wise? Surely one dragon cannot inflict too much harm; it's not worth jeopardizing our neutrality over. Is it?"

"I'll not sit idly by while a dragon terrorizes my lands and slaughters my people!" This time the renowned temper of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater erupted with all the unexpected force of a volcano. "I will keep my people safe! I will do right by them!" His words became quiet again, in some ways his next few seemed more dangerous for it. "Now, you will return to your duties as steward and not speak against this decision again. Do I make myself completely clear?"

Perhaps knowing that further debate would only land him in more trouble, the steward bowed low, mumbled something about "living to serve," and retreated down one of the side passages. Looking back at the trio, still kneeling awkwardly before the Jarl. "Please stand!" He told them in an almost embarrassed tone, "You've done a great service for Riverwood, you hardly owe me anything." Gesturing down the corridor after the retreating form of Proventus the Jarl continued, "After my steward is finished sulking I can arrange to show my gratitude in a more material way."

Scrambling to his feet, followed suit by the other two, Hammel inclined his head respectfully, "Thank you my Jarl. My name is Hammel Greymist."

"Greymist... that's not a clan name I recognize." Jarl Balgruuf stroked his beard casually, winding his fingers in and out of the honey-colored hairs. "But it matters little. You did this task, there's much honor in that." He looked over at Clob next, "I'm not sure how to extend hospitality to an Orc, but you have it. If there is anything you want do not hesitate to ask. As for you," he looked directly at the Altmer now, gazing intently at the Stormcloak blue she wore. "Well, you no doubt helped with this warning as well, and I know several of Ulfric's rebels call Riverwood home. So I will extend Nord hospitality, provided you don't preach the glories of Ulfric to anyone within earshot. Understood?" Balgruuf's tone brokered no room for debate in this regard. His voice returned to a more pleasant tone. "You've come a great deal and suffered much for my people. Dragonsreach is at your disposal today. Eat, drink, amuse yourselves. You can be on your way once you receive your payment. I trust you all find that satisfactory?"

Everyone did.

* * *

><p>Clob had scampered off as soon as Balgruuf had finished offering them the hospitality of Dragonsreach. He'd be caught up in the moment, wasted time listening the drama unfold before him. He'd come to Skyrim with a very specific purpose in mind, a purpose he'd yet to take another step towards fulfilling. Time was precious and he was squandering it.<p>

When arrived in the north he had a title, not a name, to go on. He needed to talk to the court wizard, any court wizard would do; hopefully the mage would be able to help him find what he needed.

Farengar Secret-Fire was a strange and somewhat obnoxious man. He was a Nord, though in terms of build and appearance he had more in common with Bretons. He was tall and thin, like a scarecrow standing watch over a field of wheat. His skin was very pale, the same color as raw dough, though most of it was hidden behind mage robes of a dull blue. He constantly kept a hood pulled up, even indoors, maybe he was trying to hide the scraggly little patch of brown-blonde hair on his chain, or his equally dull brown eyes.

For the most part, the Nord was happy to have Clob around, babbling on about how mages needed to stick together, something Clob himself believed. Nords were notoriously suspicious of magic and outsiders. With the Orc being both of those things he was happy to listen to Farengar complain about the shortsightedness of his kin in exchange for the man's friendship. The Nord mage had shared his library willingly and even brewed some tea. So the foreign mage was sitting in a slightly overstuffed- yet still comfortable- armchair in the mage's study. It was a small room, stuffed with book-cases, tables and various other convinces. An arcane enchanter and an alchemy station sat against the far wall, behind a table littered with scrolls and soul gems. His host hunched over the alchemy table, grinding several ingredients into a paste for some potion he was making.

"Tell me, brother mage," he asked curiously, his working furiously to pulp the ingredients Clob couldn't see. "Do you believe the dragons to have vulnerabilities similar to Argonians? Based on the shared appearance, I mean."

Putting aside the book he'd been reading on a side table, Clob shrugged, "I'm not sure. It seems logical." He went back to digging through the bookshelf, "Do you have any other books?" While the Orsimer was treating each volume with the respect it deserved and handling them with care, he was also moving through the collection with as much speed as possible. After all, he certainly didn't need to look at "Mixed Unit Tactics," or "Troll Slaying." He was looking for a very specific topic.

"Just the ones on the desk." The Nord looked away from his potions for a moment, pointing his mortar at the fine mahogany piece, groaning under the weight of ink-pots, parchment and empty potion bottles. A smile pile of books was stacked hap haphazardly to one side, buried beneath empty tea cups and papers. "If I don't have it I'm afraid you won't be able to find it. At least, not in this dung heap of a city." Farengar shook his head sadly. "These louts have no respect for the arcane arts I assure you. It sickens me; you'll find a greater sense of logic in a graveyard." The Nord mage turned back to his potions with a low sigh. "It's horrible."

"Sounds like it," Clob agreed halfheartedly. He wasn't sure how much of what Farengar said was true, but he needed the man's library of books, so he agreed with him. Farengar seemed very condescend to anything not related to the arcane arts or his research. Still, he seemed to have enough respect for Balgruuf, that might have been why he continued to remain where he did.

None of the volumes in the shelf contained what he needed, so, with his heart sinking in his chest, the Orc turned to the stack on the table. If none of these books helped he'd have to get up to the College of Winterhold, which contained the largest library in all of Skyrim. That was a long way, and he knew it would be impossible to convince his companions to go with him.

Books were such simple things; pity he couldn't find one to help him.

Moving aside the empty teacup and petty soul gems resting on top of the pile of tomes, Clob got to work looking at the titles. "On the Black Arts," "A Hypothetical Treachery," "A Gentleman's Guide to Whiterun," among others. While all sounded particularly fascinating, they surely wouldn't help him. The Orc had almost given up on finding anything when a slim, leather-bound, volume caught his eye. The book lacked any form of cover, simply hiding its pages behind a blank slab of leather. Undoing the small binding on the front, Clob peeled the cover back, gazing at it's simple title page.

A plain, dark strokes four simple words stood out to him; four simple words that signaled what he wanted to see. The book was titled, " The Orsimer of Skyrim."

While Farengar finally turned away from his potions to write several notes, Clob began reading the text. _The Orcs are a proud race of warriors, dwelling in Skyrim for untold generations. Perhaps the harsh climate appeals to their inner spirit of conquest, challenging them to greatness. Perhaps it is the richness of game that draws them. Whatever reason the Orsimer choose, many families eke out a living in the wilderness in small, walled cities, hunting and fishing as forgers of old. _

_Yet not all Orcs choose to live alone, with the most powerful families growing quite large in size. A mighty chief can have several wives, children and various hangers on. Not unlike the courts of several Jarls I've known. Within this volume I dissect the great Orc strongholds of Skyrim, everything you need to know about the culture of those within, and finding them for yourself._

Clob sat back with a contented sigh. This was exactly what he needed. The Orc Mage began flipping through the pages absently, humming to himself. He was well on his way, Malacath be praised! This day was turning around after all.

* * *

><p>Lianna sat in one of the many chairs in the great hall, rubbing her amulet of Talos between her thumb and forefinger. She couldn't get the image of a grateful Carlotta out of her head. The Elf's actions had been less than nothing, done for all the wrong reasons, yet Carlotta had treated her like some kind of hero.<p>

It perturbed the Altmer more than she cared to admit. It didn't seem like that much really. Her random good deed done for all the wrong reasons had, for Talos only knew, made an impact in this woman's life. An impact so monumental that Carlotta, a woman under difficult financial circumstance, had insisted on paying Lianna for it. Now the Stormcloak felt oddly guilty about using Carlotta's plight to further her own agenda, to take this woman's trouble and twist it for her gain.

Yet this new-found guilt was wrestling with her old emotions. Don't prop up the weak, don't support the helpless. She'd suffered alone and so she'd become strong for it. Gained respect and found a husband because of that strength. Would propping up Carlotta do her any good in the end?

Rubbing the amulet all the more for her mental struggles yet another emotion was coming into play. When Carlotta had beamed at her, told her how grateful she was, something swelled in Lianna's chest. A feeling she very rarely experienced.  
>It was hard to describe really, an almost glow in the pit of her stomach. Almost like pride, yet without the inbound sense of superiority that came with said emotion. She felt...well, good.<p>

It unnerved her.

So Lianna just sat there in the great hall, waiting for her coin, her mead and her salmon steak. Soon she'd be out of Whiterun and back on the front lines with Ralof, fighting the Empire and serving her beloved Skyrim. Soon she would be free from doing menial tasks for menial people and menial Jarls in menial towns.

If that was really what she wanted.

* * *

><p>Farengar Secret-Fire was perturbed.<p>

He hated that feeling, it reminded him of failure. He was a mage, by the Nine! He should have the answer to whatever question the Jarl asked. Yet this one eluded him. Granted, there hadn't been any dragons around since time immortal and therefore no known way to kill them since time immortal minus a year. The obvious answer to this dilemma was to find some missing piece of lore from the ancient Nords of old and use that to fight the dragons.

It was a simple plan; pity the information he sought wasn't being very forthcoming.

The candles were burning low in their holders, the Orc had long since departed, leaving the lanky Nord to find what he needed. Hopefully his brother mage had been more successful in his ventures.

Setting aside yet another useless old tome, Farengar's fingers grasped the spine of a rough leather-bound article. He hadn't looked at this particular book in ages. He'd seen it only once before loaning it to Vignar Gray-Mane. As the Companions historian, old Vignar no doubt found the volume, "On the Tombs of Ancient Heroes," both incredibly dull and highly informative. However Farengar was running out of ideas and he needed something- anything really- to grasp onto. Dragons could be attacking Whiterun at any moment, this very night, or morning if he'd truly been working that long, which was possible.

The Jarl's guests had moved out, purses a little heavier with Whiterun's coin. Hammel had left first, early in the afternoon, something about the Companions. Clob had studied in his office until dark then packed up for the Bannered Mare. Lianna had slunk away at some point, not bothering to remain in Dragonsreach, clearly disturbed about something.

With most of the staff asleep that left Farengar Secret-Fire possibly the only one still awake in the entire Great Hall, expect for the guards of course. And it would remain that way until he found an answer. So with typical Nord stoicism and a lot of tea, Balrguuf's court wizard got to work, reading book after book, scroll after scroll. Yet nothing was coming to him. All the research he did was meaningless, his efforts wasted. Nothing of any value was coming.

Until he found "On the Tombs of Ancient Heroes." He could hardly believe what he was reading as his eyes surveyed the pages. Could it be true? Could he have found it at last? Combing through the pages excitedly, Farengar studied the text. Yes, he could certainly translate the work, if he had it. If it was still there...

Farengar ran from his study at a blistering pace, the back end of his robes flapping from the movement. In his right hand he clutched the book tightly, his other held in front of him to deflect anyone in is way. The Jarl had to see this and he had to see it now. Hopefully those adventurers were still in town. He would have some use for them...

* * *

><p>AN: Yes I am aware that the robes of all priests look the same. I however find that incredibly dull. In my mind each type of priest should have a different robe and so they shall. Also I utterly love writing for Farengar, I hope I did him justice.


	7. Proving It

AN: I'm sorry this chapter took so long to write, several complications occurred my First my writing computer died, followed closely by my mouse (RIP). With both those gone I was forced to work off of the family computer, which has a very glitchy mouse-pad. But I'm back in force now. Thank you for your patience. Now, on to the chapter!

**Chapter 7**

**Proving It  
><strong>

"_So you think you're worthy to fight along side me, eh? Prove it."-Captain Hanburg "Thunderfist" Grocha. Quote from book four "A treacherous Elf," of the popular chapbook series "Hanburg's Renegades." First published 3E 347_

Proventus didn't seem very happy with Hammel when he finally handed the Nord his reward. The steward all but murdered the warrior with his gaze while slamming a pouch full of gold into his hands. Without a single word, Proventus then turned on his finely made boot-heel and left Hammel standing there awkwardly in Dragonsreach's great hall.

It was time for fresh air. He'd done what Gerdur had requested, now personal missions could be attended to. Ever since his encounter with the giant, Hammel's thoughts kept returning to the Companions, particularly Aela's half suggestion to pay them a visit. With his mission now accomplished the ex-Legionnaire intended to do just that.

Not that Lianna had particularly cared where he went, but after traveling with her for a few days he decided it would be best to tell her he was heading off. To his great surprise, she didn't have a biting or sarcastic comeback, she just nodded and waved him off. It was odd, but not really his concern.

It felt good to be outside again. While he'd hardly been in Dragonsreach for any length of time, the keep made him feel cooped up and nervous. The game of thrones and Jarls wasn't one he was keen on playing or even participating in. He felt the wind rush through his hair, ruffling the unkempt mass. Like he remembered from all those years ago, the northern winds felt good, uplifting his spirit.

Descending those stone steps much slower than he ascended them, Hammel glanced around the wind-district once more, his gaze mostly falling across the slowly wilting tree in the center. It sadden him for reasons he didn't really understand, but not enough to bother looking into. Reaching Jorrvaskr was his only concern.

"You ascended from the dung that was mortality and now live among the stars!" The priest's rantings caught him off-guard. The man's sermon, if it could be called that, seemed to echo across the square, his word empowered by a deep, booming voice. Unfortunately for Hammel, the tiny hill that the Mead Hall sat upon was directly past the shrine this priest tended to. With no one noticeable listening to him, the Nord would fall directly under the priest's eyes.

Shouldering his pack as best he could to shield his face from the priest's gaze, Hammel began walking. He moved at a casual pace, fully intent on taking the long route around the tree when something odd happened.

"Talos the unassailable! Talos the magnificent! Talos the..." The priest's rantings suddenly ended mid-sentence, his eyes glancing around feverishly. "You!" He shouted, pointing an robed arm directly at Hammel, "You brother nord; you are faithful to Lord Talos?"

Hammel froze on the spot. Glancing side to side for anyone else the priest might be looking at, the Nord grappled for a way out. Unfortunately, one did not present itself.

"Yes, I'm loyal to Talos," Hammel told the priest coldly. "I don't always think his servants display him in the best light. Now bugger off, I've got work to do."

The warrior expected him to yell a bit, scream, perhaps call down a few choice curses on the Nord's head. Nothing. Rather, the priest took a step away from his shrine, holding up a hand inquisitively. "You are the one." The priest's boney finger was jabbed almost directly into the ex-scout's face, giving him a clear view of the other man's whitened knuckles.

The ex-Legionnaire didn't know how to answer that. Instead, curiosity got the better of him and he edged forward. "What?"

"You are blessed, my child," the other nord continued. Considering his previous tone of voice, he seemed almost unnaturally quiet. "You have found favor with mighty Talos, though you don't know it yet. You will be tested, tried, yet do not be afraid. He who is both man and divine walks with you." The words had been so soft, so sincere, Hammel began to wonder if he was talking to the same man. Up close, the priest's eyes bore into his soul. He was far older than the warrior would have guess, hands wrinkled and calloused. Yet when the man gripped his shoulder there was no weakness in his grasp. "Remember," the priest told him. "He is with you."  
>With that, the holy man promptly let go of the Nord's shoulder, moving back before the shrine's simple altar. He went right back to his rants, spittle flying from his lips, hands shaking behind the dark billowy cloak.<p>

_What in Oblivion was that all about?_

Hammel watched the man for a moment, wondering if what he'd just experienced was the result of divine intervention or insanity. While the scout considered himself to be a pious man when it came to Talos and the other Divines, believing full well that they could do whatever they pleased, he had to believe insanity in this case. The priest was unbalanced and fanatical, likely, all he'd experienced was a shift in the rivers of madness.

Shaking his head to clear the strange incident from his mind, Hammel continued on his path towards Jorrvaskr. The Mead Hall had taken some weathering over the years, painted dull, wood chipped, a small hole or two in the woodwork, yet it remained strong as ever. It's position on the hill gave it easy defense from whomever might wish the Companions harm. Next to Jorrvaskr's ancient walls was a small mountain. An equally small flight of steps craved directly into the rock led up to a small ledge, again, man-made. Though Hammel couldn't see it from where he stood he knew what that small area contained.

The Skyforge.

No one knew who built it. All that was known was that the mysterious forge was long built before the Mead Hall was erected, which in turn was long before Whiterun was built. There were legends of course; some said Ysgramor, others Talos himself. Hammel didn't know what to believe, other than the best steel in all of Skyrim, possibly all of Tamriel, was forged up on that little plateau. The Nord was impressed; it wasn't everyday one got to see a key part of their childhood stories in person. He had relished those stories, they were all he had. Well, that and his mother's love, but that had hardly done anything to protect her.

Grinding on through the haze of memories, Hammel made his way up the doors of Jorrvaskr. It was time to see what destiny had in store.

* * *

><p>Aela the Huntress leaned back in her chair casually, boots pressed against the adjacent side table. Rocking back, she surveyed Jorrvaskr's interior. Tilma had lunch on the table, the smoked meat and cold mead calling out to her. The elderly maid also got the fire going, spreading warmth to every corner of the central room. The weapons and shields of past warriors hung from the walls, filling the chambers with their strength and resolve.<p>

With her boots resting on one of the side tables and her eyes sharp as a hawk's, Aela saw the fight brewing. The warrior had unstrung her bow, letting the incredibly light, ebony weapon rest on her bare knees. Despite being made of one of the hardiest metals in Skyrim, the weapon was hollow on the inside, keeping it both light and durable. It could do as a makeshift bludgeon in a pinch, though she preferred the Skyforge steel dagger resting on her waist for melee confrontations. The warpaint she'd applied that morning had just finished drying when the tension finally snapped.

It was Stonearm and Athis...again.

They were unlikely associates really. Athis was a wiry dunmer, face smeared with white paint and stone colored body composed of smooth muscle. Highly skilled with both pole-arm and blade, Athis tended to be quick and lethal, leaving him with very few scars as a result. When engaged in conversation he was eloquent and soft spoken. A topknot of red hair completed his look.

Njada Stonearm was his polar opposite. She was nord, born and raised, built like a bull to boot. She was short, stocky and gritty. The woman's features were scarred, nose bent out of shape and one ear ragged from an old knife wound. Furthermore, she insisted on always wearing her trademark fur helmet, even indoors. Unlike the clean, smooth hair of Athis, Njada's was dirty and frumpy, its brown color almost unnoticeable.

The two Companions had an...interesting relationship. Aela had seen both in the same bunk, more than once when she woke the whelps in the morning. Often, they were perfectly civil, flirtatious even, getting along like the best of friends. But with two utterly different and fiery personalities, the pair could exploded at each other over simplest things. Today it was politics.

Aela had emptied her first tankard of cold beer when it happened. "You bastard!" Stonearm hissed, throwing her chair back so she could stand up. "Tullius doesn't know the first thing about Skyrim!"

Moving to his feet with equal speed but infinitely more grace, Athis looked down at his shorter, sometimes lover. "All I'm saying is that the man's no fool." He stated, in that gravely Dunmer tone. "He's doing what he believes right; he's serving the Emperor and his conscious."  
>Aela smirked a little, refilling her tankard with another serving of beer. The Huntress still hadn't moved from her position against the side table. That remark, logical though it may be, would earn Athis at least one punch.<p>

Grabbing the Dunmer roughly by the central buckle of his hide armor, Stonearm yanked him away from the dining table and the other Companions. With Athis' back now facing the main chamber's open area, away from anything that might break, Njada struck the first blow.

Without a word, the Nord slammed her forehead directly into the Dunmer's face with a sickening crunch. Not letting Athis reconcile, she followed through with a heavy punch. Her fist basted into the dark elf's chin, snapping his head backwards and staggering him a few paces back.

Athis responded with a quick sweeping kick, provided by the extra space his fallback had given. The Dunmer's attack took Stonearm by surprise, knocking her clean off her feet. The air fled her lungs in a loud oomph as she hit the ground, hard.

"A good strike!" Aela applauded Athis, holding up her foaming mug in toast. While nobody took much interest in the pairs brawling anymore, Aela was always up to watch a good fight.

"Just don't kill each other," Skjor stated deadpan. The balding warrior was already halfway through his second plate of bacon, eggs and ham, with no intention of slowing down. The others at the table payed even less heed.

"You'll pay for that comment, bloody Dunmer!" Stonearm hissed, back on her feet and moving cautiously, hands held up in guard position. "I'll kick your sorry gray ass all the way back to Morrowind!"

"You've got to back up those words with some action," Athis responded, spitting out a wad of bloody saliva. "That surprise blow doesn't count."

"Trust me, you'll see these ones coming." Like a raging bull, Stonearm threw herself at the Dunmer, swinging her fists with a brutal fury. Aela didn't see all the blows connect from her vantage point, but Athis was swearing so he'd been hit at least once. Not that the Dunmer didn't have a few tricks of his own. Throwing a few lightning fast punches, his ash-skinned fists left welts across his adversary's face. Njada responded with a brutal uppercut, snapping Athis' head backwards for the second time. Following up with several more punches and a few choice kicks, the female pressed the assault. The brawl came to an abrupt conclusion with the Dunmer Companion laying bleeding on the floor.

Aela sat casually in her chair, watching the beat-down occur. It was Athis' turn; after all, he'd won the last time the pair had quarreled. Stonearm was gloating now, pumping her fist exuberantly and strutting around the semi-conscious Athis.

Turning away from the now finished brawl, Aela helped herself to some of Tilma's sweet rolls. The old lady had been around long before the Huntress had been a Companion and that showed no signs of changing. While her primary task was to keep Jorrvaskr clean and tend to the warriors dwelling within, she was also good at several other things, namely baking. That suited Aela just fine, she had a vicious sweet-tooth, something that Skjor teased her endlessly about. Sweet rolls were hardly a tough-as-nails warrior's favorite accessory after all. He was the only one who got away with teasing her though.

Torvar had tried it once while in one of his drunken stupors. Her first "Piss off," hadn't been enough to get the hint through his addled skull, so the woman had drawn her dagger on him. Taking the hint, Torvar left and had not breathed one word about her snacking habits since.

That thought put a sly smile on her face as she adjusted her boot-heels, putting one atop the other. The second mug of beer was still resting in her hand, the other occupied by a half-eaten sweet roll when he entered Jorrvaskr.

His sudden appearance prompted Aela to put all four of the chair's legs back on the ground and study him. What was his name again? Hammel? Yes that was it, Hammel Greymist, a name with unintended beauty. Beauty the man himself didn't particularly share, he was average at best. Aela didn't care what the exterior resembled, she cared only for the contents of the interior. Maybe that was why she was so fond of Skjor and their relationship, her certainly wasn't winning any beauty contests.

Pushing thoughts of Skjor aside, Aela surveyed Hammel as he looked around. While the man was giving a valiant attempt to look unimpressed by the Mead Hall, the Huntress could see right through it. It was the same with all the whelps, no matter what background or life they lived, all were taken in by the glory of Jorrvaskr.

Putting down her mug, she looked at his expression, followed his gaze. She didn't know why, but she was curious about him. He'd saved Ria with no thought to any sort of reward, that bought him her consideration. She watched him walk up to Skjor and waited to see if this Greymist was Companion material.

* * *

><p>Being in Jorrvaskr's main hall was intoxicating. It almost felt like he'd drunk one to many meads and lost control of his base instincts. He'd seen and done many things over the course of his Legion service and yet he was still awed. Ysgramor himself had once lived under this roof ; Ysgramor, the very father of Skyrim, now Hammel Greymist was standing where the legendary king once stood.<p>

There were several warriors eating around a massive table, the table in turn around a fire. In each of the room's corners was a small side table and chair. One of those tables was occupied by one Aela the Huntress, who didn't seemed to have noticed him. A Dunmer was sprawled on the floor with a Nord woman standing over top of him triumphantly.

Glancing at the seated warriors, Hammel tried to determine which of them was the current Harbinger. While it seemed strange to many non-Nords, the Companions had no guild leader. Unlike the Fighters Guild, each Companion was his or her own. Yet, while all of them might have been equal, there was the Harbinger. Whomever held that title was a sort of adviser for the whole group, giving advice on contracts, honor and life in general. It was up to the Harbinger, and the will of the Circle, to determine whether or not an individual would be accepted. The Nord hoped whoever currently held that title would be feeling generous.

Stepping forward, the ex-Legionnaire took a good look at those seated around the table. There were two nords, both of whom were similar enough in appearance to be brothers. Each had dark hair cut around the shoulders, with thick bulky muscles and stern gazes to match. The one in the steel armor wore a small beard on his chin, dark make-up surrounded his eyes, adding an intimidating flair. The one beside him wore armor of much finer steel, shaped to vaguely resemble a wolf, while painted with similar flair. He was fairer of face than the other and clean-shaven, save for some persistent stubble.

Yet these two didn't seem to have the look of authority, important yes, but not overly so. It was a different nord that caught his eye. This man wore the same wolf armor as one of the brothers, though he lacked gauntlets, his hands gnarled and weather-beaten and his face hard and scared. What remained left of his hair slate-gray had been pulled back into a long ponytail. One of his eyes was milky white, dead and unseeing. The other didn't seem to be in much better shape. He was rough around the edges and reeked of combat experience. Perhaps he was the Harbinger? It was worth a try.

Approaching the old warrior casually, Hammel glanced sideways at the fallen Dunmer. "That happen often?" He asked the man.

Finishing the bacon on his plate, then reaching for a mug of beer, the man's stony face cracked a wry smile. "Only when the two get pissed at each other." He shrugged, taking a long draft. "They'll be back in each others bed before the night is over. You know how love can be."

Hammel laughed. "That I do." He smiled and laughed, "Strange and unsettling."

The other man lifted his mug, "I'll drink to that." He rumbled deadpan, taking a nice long draft.

Pulling back one of the simple, yet lovingly crafted chairs, the warrior eased himself into it. "How are things these days with the Companions anyways?" He asked the man._ It wouldn't pay to just walk in and ask him for membership. You have to get to know the man first, start up a conversation, talk square._

"Not bad," he answered, finishing the beer in his mug with a smack of the lips. Furrowing his aged brow a bit he stared into the fire, "Shor's bones, it's been better. But we're still running and we're still fighting. Why, need a contract?" He asked that question like he already knew the answer, raising the gray eyebrow above his dead eye. "Or do you think we'll take you?"

"I think you'll take me." Hammel's words held no boasting within their heart. They were simply stated as facts, voice unwavering.

While the man didn't laugh in his face he hardly seem impressed. "You think that we'll accept you? Really? I hate to break it to you, but the Companions are interested only in the best."

"Ria didn't seem like the best to me," Hammel answered, "She would've been paste on a giant's club if I hadn't interfered."

The man nodded in his direction, "Fair enough." He looked towards the stairs leading to the basement of Jorrvaskr, no doubt where the sleeping quarters were. "But Ria's a special case. She'll be receiving more training and experience. She's got honor to win back after all. But you..." He looked at Hammel with his one good eye, squinting at him oddly. "I don't know if we'd want you. You look like damaged goods to me."

Instinctively, the old war wounds across Hammel's body burned. The sword cut across the chest, the broken bottle he'd taken along the lip during a particularly memorable tavern-brawl; the old arrow wound in his shoulder that would never heal quite right and contributed so much to his nightmares. Sure, he had war wounds, and mental scarring to boot, but he doubted that this older fighter had any less. War left its mark on every man and this one had no doubt served in the Great War, he looked old enough.

"Fortunately for you, it isn't my call," he smirked. "Kodlak's the Harbinger around here. Who knows? Maybe he's in a generous mood." The look on this man's face made it obvious he doubted that was very likely. "I'm Skjor, just so you know." He reached across the table for the pitcher of beer, refilling his mug again as he spoke. "I don't know why I'm bothering to tell you this, I doubt you'll be here long enough for it to matter."

"Well I'm called Hammel," the Nord responded casually, pointedly not offering the man his hand. A show of determination seemed to be in order. "Keep that in mind, seeing as I'll be around."

"Confident eh?" Skjor snorted. "Confidence is good, arrogance is not. If you can back up those big words with action, I'll reconsider what I think of you. If not, you're a little dog nipping at my ankles without doing much. Beat it meatsack."

Skjor's tone brokered no room for argument. Knowing that any more talk would only hurt his reputation, Hammel got up casually and moved towards the stairs leading down. A quick glance around the chamber showed him that the dark-haired Nord in the wolf armor had already departed, leaving his brother eating alone.

It wasn't Hammel's problem, he had a Harbinger to see.

Moving past the Companions finishing up their lunch, Hammel began his quick journey down the stairs towards Jorrvaskr's basement. The stairs were solid, quality pine, much like the building around them. As he descend into the lower level the warrior's gaze fell upon the excellent stonework the comprised the majority of the walls. Each rock was lovingly cut and placed, the basement walls sturdy and firm. With the floor composed of similar stones, numerous furs and rugs had been thrown in place to give it a more warm feel. A few torches burned on the walls, giving the otherwise darkened space some light. Tables, benches, weapons and chests were scattered around the main walkway, giving it a highly lived in look. Several small rooms branched off from the hallway, each clearly full of simple beds. At the far end the hallway split off into a fork. Hammel was unable to see what either of those separate corridors led too; he hoped one of them lead to the Harbinger's quarters.

Taking the lush carpet in stride, Hammel moved down the hall towards the end of the "T." He paused for a moment and, after hearing voices coming from the left-hand passage, decided to take that one.

He passed one more, this time lavishly decorate, quarter before finding the one he sought. The door to the Harbinger's room was open a crack, allowing him just a glance of its contents. What he could see consisted mostly of solid furniture of notable wooden persuasion, covered in books or weapons. A circular table with a simple design took up the room's corner, easily viewable from his position in the hallway. A brace of chairs flanked it, though the only one he could see was currently occupied by the missing brother.

The man's gantleted hands rubbed his dark hair fiercely, his voice, while full of Nordic richness and strength, seemed to be quivering ever so slightly. "It always boils below the surface, like a fire in my skin. Burning... always burning." He was speaking quietly, with an almost frightened tinge. "I try to fight it, to drive it away, but it's always there...Always there."

At this point another hand, also encased in steel, reached across the table, gripping the man's shoulder. "We all do." An ancient voice intoned sympathetically. "It is our burden to bare." The voice was rich with wisdom. It was definitely old, yet it remained strong, unyielding. The mailed hand gripped the man's shoulder all the tighter. "Reach into your heart Vilkas. Pull out the legendary strength of will I know dwells within you. You are a fighter!" The man's tone rose every so slightly, the voice swelling with pride. "I know you'll conquer this affliction. Just as you have conquered all other challenges before it."

Vilkas nodded gratefully, face bright with encouragement. Hammel figured it would be safe for him to make his prescience known. Rapping his knuckles on the partly-open door, the ex-scout waited for a response.

The Companion shot upward, hand reaching backwards for the handle of a great-sword strapped onto his back. "Stay your hand Vilkas, no harm will befall us here," the ancient voice stated calmly. Grudgingly, the armored warrior put his hand back on the arm rest. "Come in. Speak your piece."

Hammel pushed the door all the way open, striding into the Harbinger's room with purposeful movements. Vilkas didn't seem pleased with him, but, honestly, the Nord wasn't looking at him. It was the other man that took all his attention. While it was easy to mistake Skjor for the Harbinger it would impossible to mistake this man for anything but. He was weather-beaten, his leathery skin reddened from plenty of exposure to the sun. His face was covered in a weave of scars, his cheeks painted black with equally intricate tribal marks. His left eye, like Skjor's, was milky white and unseeing. Most noticeably, his hair ran long and snow-colored down his back, a large beard of a similar shade covered his face. The elderly warrior wore a style of armor that was identical to the younger man's.

Leaning back in his chair, the armored Harbinger looked directly at Hammel. "Yes? What is it?"

"You are the Harbinger?" The warrior responded casually, not sure how otherwise to approach him. The man nodded his snow-covered head sagely, his lone working eye scanning over the younger Nord's face with precision. He almost seemed to know the word's in Hammel's heart before they made their way to his lips. "I wish to become a Companion."

"Do you?" The weathered old fighter responded in an equally emotionless tone. "Let me take a good look at you." He rose to his feet, ancient bones creaking. Moving closer, the old man looked at the ex-Legionnaire; gazing at him intently. While he scanned over his sword arm quickly, he seemed more focused on something internal. A silence fell over the three men, as the Harbinger's gaze worked its way through Hammel's very soul.

"Yes." He said at me length. The single word came out as a harsh whisper, a single syllable that promised so much. "Yes, you'll do."

Vilkas didn't seem particularly thrilled by this announcement. "You can't be serious Kodlak!" He scoffed, gesturing at Hammel with an armored fist, "You know nothing about him. I know nothing about him and I know all the great warriors that roam Skyrim's plains and mountains. This outsider," the other nord spat on the ground viciously, "Is unknown, a variable. Why take a chance on him?"

Kodlak turned to address the other man seated at the table. "Why Vilkas? What a man has done is not as important as what a man can do. This stranger has the fire deep within him and Jorrvaskr is always open for those with fire in their hearts and steel in their hands. Anyone capable of living with honor and swinging a blade can be a great warrior." Kodlak turned away from Vilkas and gazed directly at Hammel. "Tell me, are you a great warrior?"

The words were phrased as an honest question. Not a challenge or debate. It was one man to another discussing his skill in battle and achievements that followed.

Hammel looked the man in the eye, judged his own strength for a moment, then responded honestly, "I can handle myself."

"Really?" Kodlak leaned back in his chair, surveying the warrior's face. "Confidence is good. But as for whether or not you can prove it will finalize this decision." The weathered old man turned his bearded gaze towards the much younger warrior. "Vilkas, take this young man up to the yard. Have him tested. If he passes your tests, maybe we can find him a place here."

Vilkas didn't seem pleased with this predicament but he obviously respected Kodlak to much to complain. "Keep up whelp." He told Hammel with obvious disdain, "The sooner I whip your sorry arse the sooner I can get back to something worthwhile."

* * *

><p>The sun beat down overhead, leaving trickles of sweat dripping their way down Hammel's side. The Companion's back lot was a pleasant place. A high stone wall separated the yard from the cliff-face of Whiterun. Pleasantly green grass waved in the breeze, filling the areas not replaced with dirt or stone. Jorrvaskr had a small porch coming off its back, the small area filled with rickety tables and chairs. The porch's "floor" was made from solid stone, the poles and over-head roof a far less sturdy wood.<p>

Hammel stood at one end of the dirt fighting circle, his back to a row of badly-beaten dummies. He held a blade in each hand, the short Imperial made blades, feeling right at home in his calloused grip. Vilkis stood facing him casually, his steel greatsword held in front of him, both hands wrapped tightly around the grip. A few other Companions were sitting and watching the confrontation including, Hammel noticed pleasantly, a certain Huntress.

Vilkis was eyeballing him warily, trying to gauge his strengths. No doubt the veteran of dozens of conflicts, the other nord knew that a duel-wielding opponent was dangerous and unpredictable. He hardly looked like he was going to make the same mistake many of Hammel's now dead opponents had.

"Now," Vilkas told him in a thickly accented voice. "Strike me a few times. If you can land a good blow you pass. Not that that's likely to happen."

"Crush him like a bug Vilkas!" The man's brother shouted, pumping a fist emphatically.

"Shove your boot down his throat!" A dirty looking Nord with a scraggly blonde beard and mess of hair shouted.

_Well, home crowd advantage here._

Battle now unofficially joined, the former scout took several steps forward, circling his opponent warily. He had speed on this man but Vilkas had reach, and the strength to really hurt him. Dashing in quickly, Hammel swung right, left and then right again, his attacks moving at blinding speed.

Vilkas deflected all three strikes in a shower of sparks, moving his great-sword with speed the Nord barely thought possible. Without warning, the wolf armored fighter was on the offensive, launching a slash at the warrior's skull. Throwing himself backward, Hammel just barely dodged the wallop. While both were striking with the flat of the blade to avoid fatalities, the Nord had no intention of receiving a concussion.

Rebalanced after a moment of panic, the ex-Legionnaire moved back on the offensive. Striking with both blades high, he simultaneously launched a kick at his opponent's knee. It was a risky move but it was the strongest one he had.

As expected, Vilkas caught the two short swords with ease, as expected he took the kick right in the knee cap. What was unexpected was the other nord's reaction. With little more than a grunt, the Companion took the strike with indifference. By way of response, he sent Hammel a bone crushing headbutt, slamming his armored forehead into the Nord's face. His nose guard wasn't enough protection and he felt a bone crunch. Warm blood started dripping down his nose, staining the sand below him bright red. Unfortunate.

Hammel wasn't about to give up, punching out with the sword's handle. Metal met flesh as his punch grazed the side of Vilkas' head, turning his face slightly but remaining otherwise ineffective. His adversary was on the offensive again, swinging low this time with every intention of numbing Hammel's legs. The ex-Legionnaire's leather armor allowed him to hop the blow, throwing himself out of harm's way and rolling off to the side. He felt sand running down his back and into his ear, his hair matted underneath the iron helm covering his head. He spat in the dust, rising to his feet with a fury.

Dashing at his foe with a war cry, Hammel swung his left blade in a windmill style, aiming high. Vilkis dodged this strike easily enough, but took the low punch to the gut that the Nord added at the last second. Despite the thick steel armor protecting him, Vilkas hunched ever so slightly.

That was the opening Hammel needed.

Yanking his knee upwards with a snarl, he connected with his adversary's face, launching Vilkis' head backward in a spray of blood.

"Ha! A good strike!" Aela shouted from the bench, raising her pewter mug in tribute.

Hammel didn't let the praise distract him, nor did he let up, hunching low and shuffling forward like a crab. Flipping his blades around so the pommels faced outward, he hammered them one after another into his foe's chest. Vilkas staggered backward, holding a hand up.

"Enough." His word was simple, still proud, but with a fraction of respect now mingled. "That was a good fight. Maybe there is something to you after all." Vilkas snorted after saying so, almost mocking himself. "But I doubt it." His cocky demeanor back in place, the Companion took charge once again. "Since you're just a whelp and have to do what I say, here." Finishing his sentence with a flourish, he tossed Hammel his greatsword. Despite its weight and awkward shape it cleared the distance of the ring easily enough. Shoving one of his blades back into it's sheath rapidly, the ex-scout managed to catch his opponent's sword in hand. "Take that up to Eorlund at the smithy and have him sharpen it. Up!" He clapped his armored hands at the Nord like he was some kind of dog. "Careful with that sword, it's probably worth more than you." Vilkas gave a barking laugh and departed, heading back into Jorrvaskr with the other Companions.

Hammel stood alone in the ring, feeling slightly embarrassed and foolish. He'd expected a lot of derogatory grunt work and menial tasks but this... He wasn't sure what to feel at all.

With a laden sigh he began the trudge up to to the Skyforge and to the man who worked it.

* * *

><p>"You aren't thinking about him are you?" Skjor asked Aela casually, almost as if commenting on the weather. He kept his tone carefully neutral in truly classic Skjor form. He never seemed angry, possessive or jealous.<p>

Yet Aela knew he was, she could smell it. Considering the circumstances, she supposed that seemed fair. Skjor rolled over in bed, reaching around in the end-side table for a shirt without bothering to get up.

"Yes I am," Aela answered honestly, wiping the now smudged warpaint off her face with a damp clothe. She should have been more careful but no... Now she had to reapply her paint or everyone would know she'd been busy. By Hircine she didn't need that right now.

Finishing the wash down, she snatched one of the room's towels, drying her face as she spoke. "I think he has potential." She paused a moment, "More than Torvar, anyway."

"Torvar's drunk more often than not." Skjor reminded her, pulling a linen shirt over his head, still not getting up. "That's hardly good company." His one working eye scanned her face intently, trying to pull her reasoning from her mind. He should have known better; Aela prided herself on her ability to mask her emotions.

"Kodlak agrees," Aela insisted evenly, "He's seen the fire inside." A long pause followed, "As do I."

"Huh," Skjor finally got out of bed, pulling up a pair of breeches and reaching for a belt. "He certainly handled himself against Vilkas; and his rescue of Ria seems noble enough. But I don't know. He seems...unstable."

Aela raised an eyebrow. "That's hardly the word I'd choose," she responded moving towards her own armor with grace. "He just seems, lost. A little like you were after the Great War."

Skjor snorted derisively; apparently not caring much for the comparison. "I see where this is going. You want me to back you when you offer him membership."

"You know I can't do it without majority, even if Kodlak vouches for him. Farkas will support anyone who seems worthy. Vilkas won't, he doesn't see the benefit, especially if he doesn't like the applicant. Farkas and I aren't enough to get him in. I need you." Aela's words didn't come out like a plea, they were stated as simple fact. Doing up the buckle on her left boot without looking at her lover, Aela awaited the usual silence that followed when Skjor was thinking.

The older warrior paused, chewing his lip in contemplation. Sitting back down on the bed to put on his wolf-emblazoned boots, the slate headed warrior answered. "If you and Kodlak vouch for this outsider than I will support this decision."

"Good," Aela stated warmly. "We all deserve a chance at greatness don't you think?" Slipping into the rest of her armor, the Huntress gave a cunning smile. "Let's have Farkas fetch the new blood. It's time he learned the good news."

* * *

><p>"Thank you for bringing my shield back from Eorlund's, Greymist. I've been waiting on it for some time." The woman told Hammel, taking the offered shield in one smooth motion. The old Gray -Mane had proven fine company, working the Skyforge while he spoke of myths and adventure. He had also reminded the Nord not always to do what he was told. After all, everyone was equal in the Companion's. Still, kindness was often its own reward and he asked the ex-scout to take Aela's shield back with him. Eorlund's wife was mourning the disappearance of a son and he wanted to be with her. Since taking a shield was no big deal, the warrior agreed.<p>

Now here he was, in Skjor's room with two senior Companion's awaiting a decision of life-changing consequences. He was reminded of the uncomfortable feeling he'd had after basic training, wondering if he'd made the cut into the Imperial Legion. He had, but he'd sweated for quite a while over it.

"You gave Vilkas quiet the thrashing out there," Aela interjected with a smile. "But you didn't hear that from me." Her expression shifted into something obviously more serious. "Do you think you could take him in a real fight?"

"I don't like to boast," Hammel responded instantly. "Besides, I can't honestly say unless it actually happened."

"Huh, not one for boasting? Interesting..."

Skjor cleared his throat to draw attention back towards himself, arms crossed across his chest, "While Kodlak Whitemane, as Harbinger, has the most pull over the decision whether or not to accept you, the ruling of the Circle is still important. The majority need to be in agreement before someone is accepted" The older Nord paused, arms folded across his chest in an intimidating manner. His milky-white eye stared blankly at Hammel, giving him a disconcerted feeling.

"After we debated about it for some time and a majority was reached..."

"You're in." Aela cut Skjor off with a sly smirk of her own, "Congratulations new blood, Jorrvaskr is your home now. She waved him in the direction of Farkas, Vilkas' brother. "Our resident ice brain will show you the sleeping quarters; I'd imagine proving your worth takes something out of you huh?"

Hammel inclined his head respectfully, silently thanking those who had vouched for him. "I will bring no shame to this famed hall."

"You better not," Skjor stated tersely, "I'd hate to have to string you up by your entrails and parade your corpse throughout the city." Waving the Nord away, the one-eyed Companion turned towards his book-case. "Now, off you go, find something to do."

It seemed obvious that if he stayed much longer he'd be straining the man's nerves, not something he wanted to do now that he was in. Without a word, Hammel Greymist, Companion, left the room.

"They're good people," Farkas' rough voice ground out casually as he closed the door behind him.

"What?" Hammel responded as the duo began their short journey to the sleeping quarter for the whelps. The way that Farkas had said it was so calm and surreal it took Hammel a moment to realize what he was talking about.

"Skjor and Aela, they're good people." The other nord explained, taking the lead in the pair's walk. "They tease me sometimes, you know, because I'm a bit slow in the mind, but it's all in fun really." Farkas smiled warmly. "I like it here. I'm sure you will too." Hammel didn't respond, just nodding polity. "I hope we keep you; it gets boring after awhile and a new face always helps. That is assuming you don't get killed on your first contract."

"I served in the Legion a good portion of my life," the ex-scout responded casually, patting the standard Imperial-make sword at his waist, "I doubt I'll have too many problems."

Farkas smiled all the more, "I think I'm gonna like you."

AN:Whew, this chapter was longer than expected! Thanks once again for all your continued support. (Yes Heimskr is one of my favorite NPC's.) Please remember to review, it always helps.

Cheers!


	8. The Barrow at Bleak Falls

AN: Once again, I find myself apologizing for the delay in this chapter's appearance. Suffice to say several computers crashed and my life has been particularly hectic. While that's no excuse for my tardiness I promise to give my best efforts to getting chapters out quickly. Thank you all for your continuing support of this little tale. I appreciate each review. Special thanks to deadpool626 for emailing me and asking after the story. Your dedication is appreciated.

Well know, enough ramblings, on with the tale!

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><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

**The Barrow at Bleak Falls  
><strong>

"_While Bleak Falls Barrow remains a fairly popular spot for bandits and plunderers, few dare to venture beyond the first few levels. Long rumored to be haunted, the Barrow has claimed the lives of all who dare to venture within its depths. Its treasure, the legendary Dragonstone, has never been removed or even confirmed to exist."-Excerpt from "On the Tombs of Ancient Heroes." Written by Handar Lore-Delver. Published 3E 58_

_Young Hammel knew it was a stupid idea. Really. He was no where near as agile or athletic as Oryn; his friend was a Dunmer and he was a Nord. It was a long way to jump and he was hungry and tired. _

_Still, all his excuses faded away in the face of one simple fact. Hammel Greymist didn't want to be known as a coward. "Alright, stand back!" He gave Meat-Pies a little shove, staggering the pudgy Argonian a tad, and looked at Oryn defiantly. _

_Stretching his arms out while hopping side to side in an attempt get his blood flowing, the twelve-year old nord backed up a few steps and took a running start._

_Leaping off the building with all his might, the young boy felt, for just a moment, like he was flying. The wind was rushing past his hair and the ground was far below him. It was a captivating experience._

_Pity that glorious moment had to be shattered by cold failure. _

_Missing the building by several feet, Hammel plummeted to the cold cobblestone street below. A painful crack echoed across the city of Solitude as young boy met rock. Darkness swept over him._

_For the next few hours, or minutes he really couldn't tell, the Nord found himself constantly fading in and out of consciousness. He went through periods of darkness, neither seeing nor hearing anything. Every so often, his eyes would open and he'd get a glimpse of Oryn and Pies dragging him along._

_"It's gonna be okay Hammel," Pies whispered intently in his scaly lizard voice, "You're gonna be fine!"_

_The young Nord knew his Argonian friend was just trying to be encouraging, but in between his bouts of consciousness the last thing he wanted to know was just how close his friends were to absolute panic. It hardly encouraged him at all._

_When he finally recovered without immediately passing out again, he was laying in a bed, his bed. It was rickety and the blankets were thin and warn, yet they were his. Despite the pounding in his skull and the lump roughly as large as a baby horker now blossoming out of his temple he felt oddly at peace. A byproduct of being home._

_A cloth, damp with warm water, was being rubbed tenderly across his forehead while a gentle and melodious voice was whispering, "Poor baby. Mum's here now. You'll be just fine."_

_Elliana Greymist was, in a word, faded. Her hair was a long, stringy blonde, like wool not fully spun. Her eyes were sunken into her face, her forehead lined and creased. She still had most of her teeth, though her right canine and back molars weren't as lucky. To young Hammel she seemed stretched and worn. The only thing that retained any sort of vigor was her eyes. Despite all the hardships Elliana suffered, they continued to sparkle like stars. Sometimes, they reminded him of the night sky, dark but filled with warmth._

_Rubbing the warm rag across his throbbing head, his mother looked at him tenderly. "What happened baby?" Her gaze fell across his bruised forehead. "You weren't awake when your friends brought you here. They said you, fell off a roof?"_

_His tongue felt fat, forming the words through his hazed mind was difficult. "Yeah." He nodded, his head pounding harder with each shake. _

_His mother made a comforting clucking noise, "There there. I'm here now, you're home and you're safe. Everything's gonna be alright."_

_The door to the duo's small room shook as someone pounded on it violently. "Open up Greymist! I know you're in there and I got a hankering!" The voice was crude and male, violently rough. The words were slurred, to Hammel, it sounded like the man was drunk, and wouldn't have enough teeth to properly pronounce them even if wasn't._

_His mother gave a pained expression, her gaunt face almost retreating behind the veil of stringy hair. "Go away Lorag, I'm not entertaining at the moment." Her words were quiet but firm. "My son's hurt himself. He needs me."_

_"Sounds like he needs coin and I know you don't got any." The ugly words sounded triumphantly. "I've got some for you, but my patience is running out."_

_Elliana began chewing her lip, a habit Hammel knew well. It meant his mother was debating something, arguing with herself. Her gaze was filled with pain, looking down at her own callous hands and tattered clothes and then back to her injured son. The young Nord couldn't make out her expression, his eyes still not focusing properly._

_"It's really bad isn't it?" She whispered, almost more to herself than to her son, rubbing the small talisman that hung around her neck from a simple strand of leather. Even with the difficulty focusing his eyes, he could just make out the way it gleamed in the light; the constant rubbing of a worried mother's thumb would do that. "I'm sorry baby," she whispered to him, before turning away. "I'll be back soon, with medicine."_

_Hammel wanted to tell his mother as she walked away not to do it. To come back to him and not go with the mean-sounding man. He wanted her to know he didn't need any medicine, or any healing, he was just fine. Except when he went to say those things, young Hammel blacked out._

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><p>"Greymist! Get up!" Someone was shaking him roughly by the shoulder. Blinking rapidly, the newest Companion turned to get a good look at his rude awakener. Despite the early morning bleariness and his current mental state, Hammel deduced it was Vilkas.<p>

"Wha time iss it?" He slurred, rubbing a bare hand across his eyes. He might have enjoyed Skyrim mornings, but this was far earlier than he liked them.

"Early." The word's were gruff and no-nonsense. "Sun's not yet risen." Vilkas didn't seem any more pleased than the other nord with this encounter. "Put a shirt on, someone wants to speak with you."

Reaching across the bed towards his nightstand, Hammel fumbled around inside the top drawer from one of his shirts. The garment he withdrew was simple homespun linen of a light blue shade. Rolling out of bed and pulling the shirt over his head as he did so, the warrior asked, "Who wants me?"

'The bloody court wizard."

The former legionnaire wasn't expecting that. Pausing a moment, the shirt clutched firmly in his grasp, Hammel tried to force his sleep-addled brain to put two and two together. He got nothing. "What does the court wizard want with me?" The Nord slurred out from barely functional lips.

"You can ask him yourself. Now get up and get gone!" Vilkas' non-existent patience for the other man evaporating. Picking up Hammel's boots, the Companion practically threw them at him. The "hurry up and get moving," nature of the gesture was incredibly obvious.

Pulling his shirt down and yanking on his boots with precise speed, the Nord left his room, departing to Dragonsreach at a decent pace.

It was chilly outside the Mead Hall, darkness still wrapped around Whiterun like a cloak. A light mist hung low to the ground, forming little clouds around his ankles. To an outsider, the morning would have seemed unpleasantly chilly. Hammel hardly even noticed it.

Quickening his pace a half step, Hammel slipped his hands into his pockets, a whistle escaping his scarred features. Despite the chaos of the last few days, being back home in Skyrim was wonderful.

_Wonderful huh? You're going soft, old Greymist._

Chuckling to himself slightly at his own sentimentality, Hammel paused a moment before the statue of Talos. With the priest was nowhere in sight, the middle-aged Nord dropped to one knee, folded his hands and bowed his head in reverence.

The stone image looked down at him, as if judging his actions and thoughts. Talos was a god Hammel could respect, strong, powerful and honorable. He wasn't afraid of getting involved when needed and fought with great skill. Obviously, there was much about him for a soldier to admire. Yet something was troubling the ex-scout and he wanted to speak with might Talos about it.

His lord's silence.

Considering the current outlawing of his worship, the cursed Thalmor attempting to stamp it out and the war being fought in his name, the absence of Talos' words disturbed the scarred warrior. Why was he not acting? Either through a priest, avatar or even divine intervention, anything at all that showed he was listening. Being the deeply religious man that he was, Hammel went to Talos with his fears, petitioning his lord to reveal himself to the nords. Of course, Talos didn't answer.

Feeling slightly more relaxed after his brief encounter with the Lord of Storms, the Companion rose from his position before the shrine and went up the steps to Dragonsreach.

The two guards standing outside the keep's gate nodded to him. "The Jarl's expecting you. Good to see you didn't keep him waiting." This particular guard had an accent far thicker than Hammel's own, though the warrior understood him just fine. He'd had friends with similar tones.

Nodding back at the duo, Hammel Greymist entered Dragonsreach. Unlike his previous visit to the famed keep, there was no bustle of activity. No scurrying servants rushing about, no courtiers loudly beating their chests and proclaiming their superiority. Instead, the grand hall was eerily silent.

A few hearty embers burned warmly in the fireplace while the ancient dragon skull, which gave the keep its name, glowered down from its perch. Straining his ears against the overwhelming silence, the Nord faintly detected the murmuring of voices, wafting out from a side corridor. Turning in the direction of the sound, the ex-scout followed it. As he crept along the darkened halls the voices grew stronger and were ones he recognized; Farengar Secret-Fire and Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.

"So, Farengar, what is this great piece of knowledge you have to share that requires my immediate attention?" The Jarl didn't sound particularly thrilled to be dragged from his bed at this early morning hour.

Hammel entered the room before the court wizard could make a pithy response, instead busying himself with several parchment scrolls on a back shelf. Looking over at the Jarl, the ex-Legionnaire nodded respectfully. Balgruuf, in turn, responded with a polite inclination of his head. The Jarl was dressed in a fine robe, his beard and hair remarkably well maintained despite the hour, his crown firmly placed on his head. Hammel felt an immense sense of being under-dressed.

Withdrawing a dust-coated, partially crumbling, scroll from one of his book-cases, Farengar blew the mold from it. "Greymist, touched that you decided to arrive after all," the wizard stated drolly.

"You're lucky, cryptic messages delivered before sunrise are my only weakness." The Nord made sure his tone was as equally deadpan as the wizard's.

Raising a single eyebrow, Farengar responded in an appropriately pithy manner. "Someone with half a wit? That stands you apart from the usual mercenary riff-raff."

Balgruuf coughed loud, effectively shutting down anything else the wizard might have said.

"Very well, the reason I summoned you at this hour," Farengar began in all seriousness. Laying the scroll out on his rickety table, the mage spread its crumbling edges out, placing spell tomes on each corner to ensure it stayed that way. Taking a step forward, Hammel discovered the parchment was a map. Judging by the fading color and obscure looking lettering a fairly old one at that.

"We are here." Farengar pointed out, placing his finger on a dark blob the map referred to as 'Whiterun.' "About a days ride to the south-west of here," he continued, tracing his finger to a different blob,"Is the Barrow at Bleak Falls. According to our myths, it houses the final resting place of the legendary Denbar the Cruel, keeper of the equally legendary Dragonstone."

Turning away from the duo, the court wizard removed an unwieldy looking leather-bound volume, its spine cracked with age. "Now, according to this keep's records, no one has every managed to remove the artifact. So, it pays to reason, the stone is still inside the barrow."

Farengar looked rather smug, arms crossed and face twisted into a confident grin. Balgruuf on the other hand hardly seemed convinced. "So, assuming that the Dragonstone is still inside the barrow, which it might not be, why do we risk venturing after it?"

"Good question!" The wizard snapped his fingers, his vocal tone implying he'd been waiting for someone to raise that very point. Flipping open a different tome and, while searching through its contents, the court wizard continued. "Now, even our best records are vague as to the exact contents of the Dragonstone. Despite the rather ancient nature of our records, I should be able to translate any text on the stone given enough time." The wizard moved his book aside, running a hand along the map again. "What is actually on the stone varies with each retelling, but all agree on this. The stone shows both a glimpse into the mind of the dragons and the location of several of their ancient burial sites. If dragons are indeed returning, any information we gain from this venture could prove useful in the future. I highly recommend someone be deployed to fetch me that stone."

Hammel felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something told him that the wizard already had a candidate in mind. Someone like him. Running a hand through his bedraggled hair with a small sigh, the former scout looked right at Farengar. "You want me to do this don't you?"

"You seem the most logical choice," the court wizard admitted, fists resting adamantly on his hips. "I'm most certainly not."

Balgruuf didn't speak, simply standing quietly while stroking his long beard. "If you do this," he said after a moment of silence, "And you come back in one piece, I can arrange for a reward of some sort. Retrieving the Dragonstone would be a great help to the city." Almost as an afterthought the Jarl of Whiterun added, "If your friends would care to join in they too would receive some compensation."

Hammel was in a predicament. On one hand he wanted to refuse. He'd just gotten in good with the Companions and didn't want to place his new-found job in jeopardy. Plus, tramping off to Bleak Falls Barrow sounded like a good way to get killed. And over what? A hunk of granite with some scribbling on it?

Yet something was holding him back from outright refusing. Balgruuf needed him. The Jarl of Whiterun and, by all accounts, a good man was requesting his services. Hammel hadn't felt needed since his military days and he felt honored. Besides that, insulting the man who's town whose town he'd be living in for the foreseeable future wasn't a wise decision.

Despite the sinking feeling in his gut suggesting this was a very bad decision Hammel found himself nodding. "I'll set out for the Barrow mid-day tomorrow." The Nord paused a moment, an idea striking him suddenly. "If I may, could you grant me a boon Jarl Balgruuf?"

The Jarl nodded simply, his arms folded across his chest.

"I'd like a bow."

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><p>The cart was jerky and its constant bouncing made her head throb. Lianna of Riverwood wasn't particularly a fan of horse-drawn carriages. The rickety seating made it impossible to sit comfortably and the open design let in every draft of freezing Skyrim air.<p>

Rubbing her hands together, Lianna tried to force a bit more warmth into them. Despite her best efforts nothing came of it. Cursing the poor lining in her gloves, the elf settled in for an unpleasant journey.

Despite what she told Ralof, and the image she projected to those around her, the raven-haired Altmer still struggled with the cold. As a spell-sword, her magic was extensively combat-focused, providing her with little protection from the elements. As if to spite her, this gray morning was particularly unpleasant. Rain fell from the darkened sky sporadically, leaving her both damp and cold.

The weather didn't seem to bother her driver in the slightest. The burly nord kept on rambling about his favorite kind of mead, gripping the cart's reigns tightly. The rain had no effect on him, bouncing off his fur coat and scarred features without drawing even the mildest of complaint.

Still, despite the foul weather and the unnecessarily chatty carriage driver, Lianna's spirits were rising. She was headed home.

Not her literal home, nor any building, but the home of her heart. Ralof. She was going to Windhelm. The Stormcloak longed to be among the ancient buildings again, hear the bustle of the market and drink the mead at the taverns. And, of course, snuggle up with a certain nord to keep her warm at night.

Hammel had asked if she wanted to come on this little fool's errand of his but she heartily refused. She'd gone on enough quests with that washed up excuse for a warrior and if she never saw him again it would be too soon. She had a fight to return to.

The cart bounced over a rock, the resulting movement jamming her arm against the wall. Lianna swore bitterly under her breath, pulling her thread-tattered cloak tighter. It made no difference.

As usual, the carriage driver seemed not to notice.

Mentally, the Stormcloak willed the cart to go faster. Her Jarl needed her.

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><p>"By Oblivion! A man could freeze his stones off out here!" Talius Deverus cursed, wrapping his bear pelt cloak tighter around his shoulders. He could hardly fathom the snow up to his knees and the storm raging around him. The Imperial could barely see' not to mention feel' anything with the brutal whiteness surrounding him. How the nords lived with weather like this almost daily was something he couldn't fathom.<p>

Throwing another log onto the pitiful excuse for a fire the bandit group managed to keep burning, Talius reached for the flask of warm tea he kept on his belt. Realistically, as a sentry, he should have kept his war axe in hand, but really who would find them up here? The little band of plunderers had taken up refuge on top of some snow-covered hill in the shadow of an ancient Nordic tomb. Talius wasn't superstitious, but sometimes the place gave him chills.

"Good thing you don't have any stones left to loose!" Wudgar, his nord accomplice, responded heartily, brandishing his claymore. "You Imperials lack backbone! This weather is nothing short of brisk." Despite his snow-caked beard and eyebrows, Wudgar barely seemed to notice the storm around them. Unlike Talius, the Nord had left his fur vest wide open, exposing his scar-covered chest to the elements. He didn't seem at all phased by them.

"We should had back to Hammerfell," Talius stated, taking a long sip of his tea. The heat warmed him down to the toes. "Sasha missed her home and besides, she's more "excitable," with sand around."

Wudgar snorted, his drooping mustache shifting in the process. "I'd rather fight a Saber Cat barehanded than return to that overgrown sandbox."

Talius shrugged. "Say what you will. The women were better there." After another sip, the Imperial screwed the lip back on his flask, retuning it to his belt. Wrapping his hand around the handle of his axe, the bandit leaned back slightly on the stump he was currently sitting on. "When's Draven coming back? He should be here by now." Looking into the utter whiteout, the bandit shielded his eye with his hand. "I can't see anything out here."

"If the Bosmer returned I would know," his nord accomplice answered disdainfully. Glancing into the flurry with his one good eye, the older of the two bandits smirked. "Snow is my element."

"Well it sure as Oblivion isn't mine," Talius responded, scooting closer to the fire. Holding his hands out as far as the cloak would reach, the bandit practically shoved his limbs into the fire. Giving his best mental estimate, the Imperial bandit guessed that he had maybe another hour out in this freezing torment. After that he could retire back safely inside the barrow,; he'd spend the rest of the day playing cards with Arvel , flirting with Sasha and drinking the night away.

Despite the boredom of late, he wasn't concerned; apparently old Thrag, his boss, had a new heist set up.

Hopefully it would put some coin in his pocket. This damn treasure hunt had been entirely unfruitful so far. Breaking into the general goods store in Riverwood had been easy. Making out with the claw, even easier. Actually using the claw? Not so much.

Arvel seemed to think he'd found the answer. Last time to the two of them had played cards, he'd kept muttering about how the answer was before their very eyes. Honestly, Talius thought the dunmer had finally lost his wits.

The howling wind increased, snow hitting him firmly in the face, obscuring his vision. Sputtering and spitting out snow the Imperial rubbed his eyes with a frozen hand. "Wudgar, how do you...?"

He stopped mid-sentence as an arrow came launching out from the wall of snow, striking his companion directly in the shoulder. Howling in pain, Wudgar fell to his knees, good arm scrambling for his claymore's handle. He never reached it. The second arrow took him directly in the face. Even as the nord bandit fell face first in the snow, Talius was moving, flinging himself off his stump.

Hitting a snowbank hard, the man's left ear was instantly clogged. Scrambling to his feet, fur cloak swirling, Talius dashed for the stone steps leading upwards to the barrow. If he could only reach it...

Unfortunately, moving rapidly through knee-deep snow wasn't a strong point of his. The bandit repeatedly fell, getting more and more tangled in his cloak. By the third time, he gave up trying to stand, simply scrambling forward on his hands and knees.

Talius the bandit never saw the arrow strike him in the back of his head, never felt its shuddering impact and never hit the ground. All he saw was black leaping up around him.

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><p>"Pity. I wanted to hit each with a single shot." Hammel gave this statement with all the emotion of commenting on the weather. It really was a damn shame, no doubt the falling bandit had broken both shafts. He'd tried his best to compensate for the wind and snow but it wasn't enough. He'd been away from Skyrim for too long.<p>

The bow Jarl Balgruuf had graced him with was standard to the Imperial Legion, compact but powerful. In his hands it felt comforting, something familiar from his past.

"And I thought your removal of the Bosmer earlier was impressive. He never saw you until the knife was at this throat," Clob commented approvingly. Despite the weather, he seemed almost as impassive as Hammel himself, paying no attention to the blinding snow. The fluttering of fancy robes and firm grip on his quarterstaff was the only indication he even noticed it.

Hammel shrugged eloquently at the comment. "What can I say? I was a scout for years, I know how to make people disappear."

"I've never seen anything like that," Ria commented in awe. "I mean, I've killed my fair share of creatures, but never like you did." The young imperial shifted nervously in the snow, sword already drawn.

Ignoring both the Companion and the mage, Hammel advanced towards the campfire, bow in hand. His two followers flanked him, keeping their eyes focused ahead. Despite their unfamiliarity with snow-covered terrain each had adapted remarkably well. Clob had come along because of his desire to visit the ancient ruins. Despite refusing to tell him, the ex-scout was more than happy to have the mage along for the ride. Bleak Falls Barrow was an ancient tomb and he wanted magic on his side, just to be safe.

As for Ria, Hammel had invited her on a whim. Feeling that the girl could use more combat experience and, with Lianna gone, he needed another warrior watching his back. However, a nagging part of his mind kept telling him he'd brought the young warrior along because she reminded him of himself at a young age. Regardless, the trio had taken the day odd walk to the Barrow, rested for the night and carried on up. Aside from the patrolling scout and these two guards no other bandits had been encountered.

Kicking over the body of the fallen nord, Hammel was greeted by the sight of both arrows broken. No point in recovering either.

"You'd think they'd have better guards posted," Ria observed, "We're practically at the Barrow's doorstep now." It was true. The ancient tomb loomed over them, clearly visible despite the flurrying snow. Dark and jagged points sprouted off in all directions, a massive set of crumbling stone steps leading up to an impressive set of dark steel doors. Various carvings and runes decorated the stone structure, though many were now broken or impossibly faded. Overall, it wasn't one of the most appealing places Hammel had ever seen.

"Bandits are notoriously lazy," the ex-Legionnaire responded, drawing another arrow and notching it into place. "They must have figured that their position in the mountains was secure, trusting to both a difficult climb and local superstition to keep them safe." Giving a dark smile, he kicked the corpse at his feet, "They were wrong."

The Nord became increasingly aware of Clob's murmurings. Off to his left the Orsimer was whispering and giving precise hand gestures. Recognizing a spell being cast when he saw one, the warrior let the mage finish. "You missed one," the wandering wizard stated casually, pointing a green finger up the stairs. "I don't know if he's seen us yet, but he hasn't moved from the stone steps."

"Detect life is such a useful spell," Ria commented, words slightly slurred by her chattering teeth. "Makes me wish I knew a little magic."

"Focus on your blade Ria," Hammel advised, moving forward as he said so, "A sword never runs out of energy at a critical moment." Dropping to a crouch, Hammel began a hunched walk, towards the door. With the snow cloaking him the former legionnaire was next to invisible.

As he moved, the Nord could barely hear Clob's indignant, "Some of us have plenty in our magicka reserves."

The blistering cold felt comforting on his skin, the hunter's posture he'd adopted connected him back to his military days. It was a happy moment for him, in ways he could hardly comprehend. Simply being back in his old role made him feel home again, like he had a purpose. After his discharge and journey back he'd been lost, wandering aimlessly. While he still wasn't sure where his new-found connection to Whiterun would lead, it was certainly a step in the right direction.

Crouching underneath a jagged pile of rubble that, he estimated, had once been an ornate column, the ex-scout kept his fingers taunt on the bow's string. He sat still a moment, listening. After a brief pause he heard it. A faint cough, muffled behind someone's hand.

_Now I've got you._

Taking a quick hop-step out from behind his cover, Hammel cleared the remaining steps, ending in front of a very startled nord bandit. Without a word, the warrior released the shaft. His arrow punched effortlessly through the fur jerkin the bandit wore, iron point tearing a bloody hole in the unfortunate bandit's chest. Without a word, Hammel's foe sunk to his knees, collapsing onto his side.

Dropping to a crouch, the ex-scout yanked his arrow free, cleaning it on his foe's leather armbands. After placing the arrow and bow back on his back, the warrior withdrew his swords. "Be careful," he advised the duo behind him. "We don't know what we'll find on the other side." Clob nodded, preparing a spell, Ria twirled her blade once but said nothing.

Rushing the massive iron doors, Hammel put his shoulder to them, throwing the obstructions aside. Swords held in a defensive posture, he stormed into the Barrow's mouth, letting the tomb swallow him up.

* * *

><p>"The Imperials are moving northward," Galmar Stone-Fist stated in his rough gravel voice, pointing a gloved finger at the map spread before the two men. Tracing that finger away from the small red flag representing the third Imperial cohort, the Stormcloak general jabbed a blob titled "Fort Snowhawk." Leaning back from the map Galmar continued, "With the Third Cohort strengthening the Seventh and Ninth, we'll need to pull our boys out. Damn Imperials will have them surrounded."<p>

Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of the rebellion splitting families and ending friendships across the breadth of Skyrim, didn't immediately respond. Instead, the Jarl of Windhelm stroked his proud beard for a moment, eyes darting to and fro across the map. "Give the order Galmar, I want those men free to fight elsewhere." Pointing at Falkreath, Ulfric commented, "Siddgeir is weak. He's more interested in hunting trips and parties than fighting this war. We will use his slothfulness to our advantage. When Falkreath hold is firmly under our control Balgruuf will see the error of his ways and join us. With Whiterun at our side, the tides of war will shift."

There wasn't a hint of uncertainty in his Jarl's voice. It was as unyielding as winter itself, and Galmar admired the Oblivion out of Ulfric for it. His Jarl was a hero, like the ones of of old, advanced enough in years for traces of gray to sneak into his proud beard and hair. A fair share of scars marred an otherwise handsome face, a nose thrice broken testified to its owners unwillingness to back down. He was tall too, easily more than six feet, with a continuance that had maidens a third of his age swooning. Yet more than anything else, it was Ulfric's voice that made all stand still. It was proud, with a thick accent showcasing a true Nordic upbringing. Yet it was still humble enough to give some favor to those who deserved it.

By comparison, Galmar was short, bulky and built like a bear. He was brutally scarred, darkly tanned and walked with a permanent limp. His dark eyes remained fresh and his mind sharp as ever. He didn't look like much, but he was a powerful fighter and sound tactician. The skin of the bear was a symbol of his status, a high ranking officer in the Stormcloak army, a badge he wore with pride. Galmar knew his strengths, something he readily admitted. It was a fool who didn't test himself first.

_And I've known plenty of fools._

"In other news," Galmar continued, willing away his mental wanderings. "Most of the Helgen survivors have returned from Riverwood, as you could imagine, they remain hungry for Imperial blood." Stamping Ulfric's royal seal on the latest pile of orders, the Stormcloak general tucked the bundle firmly under one arm.

Ulfric gave a predatory smile, "And they shall have it." Waving his hand authoritatively, the Jarl commanded, "Have the survivors formed into one unit. Their resourcefulness and experience will be a great asset to our cause. They number some of the truest sons, and daughters of Skyrim. I want their fury focused." Bringing his fist down on the table, the Jarl of Windhelm stated boldly, "They will be my hammer, striking hard against our enemies." Leaning back again, Ulfric added almost as an after thought, "Find a worth soldier to lead this new band."

Galmar nodded, "I've already got one in mind. If he shows the same resolve he did at Helgen, he'll be a fine officer." The bear-clad officer nodded absently, yes, his candidate was a fine choice. A little rough around the edges perhaps, but worthy none the less.

"Good." Turning away from the table with a flourish of his fur cape, the Jarl moved for the door. However, pausing mid-stride, Ulfric spoke again. "We are outnumbered Galmar."

"I understand that my Jarl."

"We are under-supplied and under-fed."

Galmar didn't fully understand where Ulfric was going with this little speech but he wasn't about to argue. "Yes, my Jarl."

"Yet, despite all the odds arrayed against, we will be victorious in this war." Turning back around, Ulfric fixed Galmar with an iron gaze. "Do you know why?" Without waiting for his Housecarl and most trusted friend to respond, the Stormcloak leader answered. "Because we are Nords." After a moment of silence, the Jarl added, "Send out my orders Galmar." Without hesitation, Ulfric left the war room.

Galmar gave a rough smile. Those damn Imperial's had no clue what they were up against. They may have more numbers and better supplies. They may have three full Legions deployed in Skyrim. They might control Solitude, the most heavily fortified city in the province.

But they didn't have Ulfric Stormcloak.

It would take more than three well supplied Legions to break his legendary will.

Fists clenched in anticipation, Galmar Stone-Fist also departed, he had orders to deliver.

* * *

><p>AN: There you have in Galmar and Ulfric, two favourites of mine finally appear. I hope both were written satisfactory. As the Imperial Legion is based off the Roman army I've used the term "legion," to also stand for a large number of men. I will continue to do so in the future and will ensure that the use of Legion as an individual army and Legion for the Imperial force as a whole are clear.<p>

My next chapter will be slightly delayed, as I am going back and editing some previous chapters. The first three are in desperate need of revising.

Once again, thank you for your time and reviews, all are appreciated.


	9. A Little Exploring

AN: Thank you again for all your support. This chapter came much quicker than I expected, despite the release of the admittedly awesome Dawnguard! Now, onto the tale!

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><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

**A Little Exploring**

"_Nothing good ever came of a little exploring."-The character "Olfrad the Red," from the play "Every Sailor's a Fool." Written by Grozak gro-Krakdar. First preformed 4E 134_

All the snow and wind the north possessed couldn't freeze the happiness in Lianna's heart. There he was, standing erect and proud, with all the honor and courage a son of Skyrim was entitled to. A charming smile was plastered across his face, his honey-colored hair blew gently in the wind, flecks of snow giving it a rustic look. His tunic looked washed, his chainmail polished. In short, he looked good.

Ralof.

Leaping off the cart, even as the driver stopped it, Lianna's boots hit the frozen cobblestone road leading up to Windhelm with a crunch. Snow was falling gently around the Altmer as she quick-walked over to her husband. Making a conscious effort not to run, Lianna put on the smuggest expression she possessed. "And, who might you be?" she asked in a haughty tone, eyebrow raised. "I have little time for dirty soldiers."

Grinning at her with a smirk that could only be described as wolfish, Ralof spoke. "Fortunately miss, I am hardly a dirty soldier." His accent gave the words an almost regal twist, leaving Lianna with little tingles in all the right places. His deep blue eyes filled her with such warmth, it was difficult to keep up her facade. "I'm Nord," Ralof continued, voice filled with utmost confidence, "We're a hearty people. We know how to treat a woman right."

"Is that so?" The Altmer rebel responded coyly, "Can you back up this claim?" Both Stormcloaks were walking towards the other in rapidly increasing steps. Both far happier to see the other than their little game let on.

"But of course," the renegade responded. With that, he grabbed Lianna around the waist and kissed her heartily.

As her husband tilted her backwards, the High Elf closed her eyes and savored his taste. It was a combination of mead, sweat, snow and what could only be described as tundra. Grasping him by the shoulders, the Elven rebel kissed him back fiercely, doing battle with his tongue. Ignoring the snow falling around them the couple continued the battle of tongues, embracing the other like there was no tomorrow.

After a moment, lack of air forced the pair to separate. Breathing heavily, Lianna smiled. "I guess you missed me, huh soldier?"

Ralof winked. "What gave it away?" Wrapping his arm around her waist, the Stormcloak rested his head comfortably atop his wife's while she placed hers on his shoulder. "I missed you," his words were honest and very soft.

Closing her eyes and simply breathing in the feeling of being back with her husband, Lianna gave a contended sigh. "I missed you too." The couple stood outside of Windhelm for a moment, just looking at the ancient city and basking in the other's presence.

"What do you say we go get a meal and drink, eh? We can rent a room for the night, just enjoy ourselves before Ulfric sends us out again." Ralof stated happily, pulling his Elven wife tighter against him. "Rumor is we'll be part of a very special operation soon enough and I'd rather sleep in a warm bed with a belly full of cold mead one more time." The Stormcloak smiled at her, "I'll even let you pick where we eat."

Lianna laughed. "How can I resist such a fine offer!" The duo began walking across the bridge towards Windhelm, the oldest human city in Skyrim, arm in arm. "When you said I could pick, does that include the New Gnisis Corner Club?" The Altmer smiled warmly.

Every time she was in Windhelm, which was rather often when she thought about it, she always went down to the Gray Quarter, home of the city's Dark Elves. While she couldn't change the Jarl's policies on the Dunmer, and she wasn't sure she wanted to, the Corner Club served better food and drink than Candlehearth Hall. Besides, she was Altmeri, the Dunmer were her cousins and she always felt the desire to support them. In some ways, all elves were in this quest of life together. Perhaps, in time, they would see the error of their ways and fully throw their support behind Skyrim's bid for freedom.

_Maybe, if one of Ulfric's army gave constant support to their endeavors, they'd be a little more hospitable._

Despite her stubborn instance that her only interaction with the dark elves was only for political reasons, another idea kept lurking in the back of her mind. Guilt. It wouldn't quite go away, the idea that a guilty conscious had something to do with her decision to spend time at the Gray Quarter. That she felt bad for the oppressed immigrants, that she was opposed to their situation and she wanted to do something about it. Spending her septims was one way she could help. Besides that, the residents of the slum were Mer; they were simply lost; one day the would see the light.

Ralof sighed, "Fine, the Corner Club it is." His voice was resigned with doing a duty he hardly cared to. Like many of her brothers-in-arms, Ralof would rather avoid dealing with Dunmer if he could. Still, he had promised.

"You're a good man, Ralof son of Ralgar," Lianna whispered, kissing her husband's rough cheek. His beard tickled her sensitive lips, electing a small chuckle. "I knew there was a reason I married you."

"And here I thought it was my good looks," the renegade responded suavely, leading his woman into the city.

Barely above a whisper, Lianna added, "That too."

* * *

><p>Hammel was surprised with how quickly the doors to Bleak Falls Barrow opened. Based on their large size, he expected them to hold up for more than one shoulder-rush. However, they swung open smoothly, albeit, with a loud clang.<p>

The noise created by the trio's sudden intrusion rendered all attempts at stealth pointless. Leaping from their seats around the cozy fire in a shower of dropped playing cards, the four bandits in the entrance chamber went for their weapons. The apparent leader, a female Redguard, screamed at the intruders, "How'd you get in here?"

Rising to his feet beside her, the Orc gave the sensible response of, "It doesn't matter! Just kill them!"

The gap between the entering adventurers and the bandit guards was roughly two feet, hardly a vast expanse. Unfortunately for the brigands, Hammel and his companions were already armed. Swinging both his swords in an intimidating fashion, the warrior dashed straight towards the Orc, roaring, "Come on! Face me!"

Clob tossed his quarterstaff aside, hands already moving as the Breton rushed him, dagger drawn. The Redgaurd, the group's sole female, spat at Ria, pulling a particularly wicked-looking scimitar off her belt. The remaining bandit, a Nord with a warhammer, made his move towards Hammel, swinging the weapon over his head.

Battle was joined.

The Orcish bandit howled at the Nord, swinging his flail overhead with a snarl. Judging by the amount of foam gushing between his front fangs, the Orsimer had whipped himself up into a blood-rage. Despite the more impressive looking weapon in the Nordic brigand's arms, Hammel had seen, and worked with, more than enough Orcs to know that a berserker took top priority.

Ducking the Nord bandit's first swing, the warrior kicked his kinsman, staggering the foe. The Orc howled, snapping the flail out. Throwing himself aside, Hammel narrowly dodged the spiked ball at the chain's end, feeling its weight across his shoulder. Countering as quickly as he could, the ex-scout jabbed outward with his left-hand blade. He scored a small cut across the Orc's arm, earning him nothing more than a chuckle.

Launching a vicious backhand, the brigand smacked Hammel across the face, throwing him to the ground. He tasted his own blood, felt his nose snapping despite the nose guard's best efforts; as old wounds reopened themselves. Moving in, the Nord thug swung his hammer two-handed at the prone warrior. Rolling aside, the former legionnaire narrowly dodged a bone-shattering strike, feeling the vibrations as steel met stone where he'd laid a moment before. Cutting out quickly, he landed a small strike on the brigand's knee, driving him back. Rising to his feet, he ducked another strike from the flail, the steel orb grazing the top of his iron helmet. Diving forward, Hammel stabbed outward with both swords, impaling the green-skin through his right leg.

Snarling with pain, the Orc punched downward, striking the Nord directly in the face. Despite the nose-guard his helm provided, the blow hurt, snapping his head back. Losing his grip on the right blade, Hammel staggered backward a few paces.

"I'll crush you underfoot like a skeever!" The Nordic bandit looked more than willing to back up that threat, swinging his warhammer directly at the warrior with both hands. Hopping a single step backwards, Hammel, dodged the blow. The hammer connected with empty air, throwing its owner off balance. Snagging the end of the weapon closest to him with a free hand, the ex-legionnaire yanked it towards him, hard.

Caught off guard by the move, his fellow Nord lost his grip on the hammer, staggering forward with the grace of a drunken troll.

The Orc criminal chose that exact moment to strike again, lashing out with his flail. Human skull met orb of spiked metal with a sickening crack. The other Nord collapsed, head now horrifically misshapen.

The situation was almost comical. However the Orc failed to notice it, rage having completely taken over.

Yanking the Kiss free from its sheath on his underarm, Hammel resumed his traditional high guard stance. "Now that it's just you and me, I won't tell anyone that you surrendered." Holding the Kiss with his lower hand and Imperial issue short sword in the upper, the Nord waited for a witty retort.

The Orc just snarled.

Around the duo, steel on steel rang out, accompanied by an inhuman shriek and a crackling of lightning. The two fighters blocked in all out, sizing each other up.

Dashing forward with a ground-shaking roar, the Orc ignored the blade sticking out of his right leg, a wound easily capable of crippling a Breton or Imperial. Snapping his arm to and fro, Hammel's foe lashed out with his weapon once again, this time scoring a hit. Hissing through the pain, the Nord felt a few of the weapon's spikes bite deep into his skin through leather armor, marring the skin underneath even farther beyond recognition.

Not wanting his opponent to get another blow in, the ex-scout dived at his adversary, the Kiss held in his outstretched hand. The finely made Dwemer weapon proved more than adequate for the task, punching through the Orc's fur jerkin. His hand wrapped tightly around the dagger's handle, the warrior felt something strange. The Orc gasped, growing visibly paler as Hammel sunk the weapon deeper into his chest. Simultaneously, the Nord felt the earlier wounds he taken patching themselves up, flesh regrowing and bruises fading; most noticeably, his nose re-knit itself, painfully. It felt like he'd just drunk several rather potent healing potions in rapid succession. He felt renewed, whole and very impressed with his new weapon.

Without making a sound, the Orc's eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed. Gazing down at the dagger in awe, Hammel sent a silent "thank-you" to Ri'saad.

_Tu__rns out your little trink__et is worth more than I thought. Much appreciated._

"That's quite the blade you have there." Clob noted, stepping cordially over the steaming remains of his opponent, retrieving the quarterstaff from the ground where he'd tossed it.

Ria nodded, placing her blade back in its scabbard. She looked unharmed, as opposed to her opponent. Hammel noticed the Redguard's head bouncing away, leaving little red patches every time it struck ground. She seemed to be a better fighter then Aela of Skjor gave credit. "I don't suppose you'll lend her out?" Her words had a wistful tone, laced with a chipper attitude.

"No." The former legionnaire responded plainly. "The day I let you borrow this knife is the day I hold an Elder Scroll." Sheathing the Kiss back in its place, the Nord pulled his other Imperial-issue blade free of the Orc brigand's corpse.

"What now?" Clob commented, looking at the chamber around them. It was obviously ancient, mostly stone, with patches of rotting wood here and there. The sorry remains of a few tapestries clung stubborn to life, several piles of rock sat silently in tribute to the pillars they had once been. Light drifted in through the ceiling from a jagged hole. A skeever was slowly turning on a spit over the fire the bandits had been sitting around.

"Now?" Hammel responded, kicking open a wooden chest sitting next to the fireplace. "We gather up what loot we can, then we do a little exploring."

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><p><em>"Clobnak gro-Grogork! Pick your feet up, you little <em>_e__lf!" Uncle Garborz snarled, thro__wing a rock at the young green-skin. It struck Clob on the side of __his head, gashing it open. Stifling__ his cries to the best of his abilities, the young Orc did as he was told. Readjusting his pack, Clob picked up the pace, still utterly failing to keep th__at of his uncle's._

_ "I swear by Malacath boy," Garborz snarled, spittle flying from his fangs, "I'll bite your ear off if you don't keep up!" The much older Orc was easily outdistancing his nephew, longer legs and more developed muscle allowing him to stay almost two lengths ahead, seemingly without effort. The Dragontail Mountains glowered down at him, as if judging him for his failure to match his uncle's pace._

_ He hated these sessions, tramping through the woods like some kind of pack-mule. To, 'toughen him up.' Why? He could be back at the village, studying his texts, harnessing the inner power that, even at a young age, he knew he possessed. Instead, he was out in the valley, almost crying because of his uncle. An uncle who made it perfectly clear how he felt._

_ "My father wouldn't make me do this." Clob whispered under his breath, hand clutched against his wounded skull._

_ Unfortunately for him, Garborz gro-Malorg heard him. "But your father isn't here is he? Hardly. He's gone and I'm stuck with you." The words came out of his mouth with the fury of a dozen boars, almost burning the younger Orc from sheer rage. "Now," Garborz snarled, readjusting his eye-patch, his sole, good eye burning his nephew with its anger. "You're going to keep the pace. Are we clear?"_

_ Clob didn't answer._

_ "Good, we've got another ten miles to go. Shut up and move."_

_ Despite the pain in his slender frame and the few salty tears he shed, Clob kept the pace. For ten miles he ran, stride-by-stride with his uncle. When the time came to hit the sack, the young mage fell right asleep. Tomorrow was another day, and he had to get back what little strength he could._

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><p>"There are three bandits in the room ahead of us. None of them seem to be aware of our current location." Clob was impressed with his companion's to no end. While he knew Hammel had some experience with moving silently, he'd demonstrated it quite impressively outside, Ria was an unknown quality. While clearly the loudest of the trio, she still moved with enough silence to avoid detection.<p>

Fortunately for Clob, Hammel hadn't pressed him for answers about his stealth abilities, notably, where he'd acquired them, which was just as well. The Mage wouldn't have answered anyway.

"Magic?" The Nord asked him, bow in hand, seemingly unperturbed by another conflict. The trio had slunk through the tunnels for an unknown amount of time, encountering no more bandits. Clob was faintly aware that they were heading deeper into the earth. The only sign that the surrounding tunnels had been used within this decade was how remarkably clean and clear of debris they were. Taking his usual precaution, the Mage maintained his detect life spell, displaying the auras of the upcoming bandits long before they saw the approaching adventurers.

"Yes." While maintaining his concentration on the detect life, Clob surrounded himself with a quick suit of incorporeal mage armor. Obviously, he had no intention of letting the bandits close enough to test it, but it never hurt to be prepared.

"Pity. For them." Ria ground out, sounding like a two-septim action hero from Hanburg's Renegades. She managed to maintain her serious expression for a grand total of three seconds. The grimace faltered and Ria's admittedly charming, smile spilled across her face. Clasping her hand over her mouth, the young warrior managed to stifle the giggles.

"Skjor, you are not." Hammel noted dryly, withdrawing an arrow from his quiver. A simple wooden door, slowly beginning to rot, separated the trio from the bandits. "Now, if you excuse me, I'm going to knock."

Clob might have made a comment about giving slightly more thought to their attack strategy, but the ex-scout didn't give him an opportunity.

Kicking the door inward with all his might, the Nord shattered it in a single blow. Splintering inward, the portal practically exploded, leaving three, very stunned, bandits staring at the intruders. Hammel let loose an arrow before the first got his weapon free. The shaft struck dead on, punching right through the brigand's neck.

Even as their fellow collapsed like a string-less marionette, the other two bandits were moving, pulling crudely made blades off of their belts. It made no difference.

Clob took a step forward, muttering under his breath and making elaborate gestures. Before the lead bandit, an ugly looking Argonian with a ragged tail, could take another step, Clob shoved his hands forward, a wall of flame leaping out from his palms, washing over the lizard. His screams were muffled by the roaring fires; the other thug stared in horror as his compatriot practically disintegrated before his eyes.

"Stendarr preserve me," the Breton breathed out, before an arrow took him in the right side of the face, tearing off an ear. He managed to block the flow of blood with both hands before Clob burned a hole in his chest with a well-placed lightning bolt. The brigand toppled over, corpse steaming gently.

"That was uneventful," Clob stated, with a tone implying he'd simply ordered a cup of tea, rather than barbequing a bandit.

"There can't be many more of them," Ria commented, looking around the room warily, as if expecting something to come spring out from the shadows, "Bandit gangs don't tend to be very large."

"Heard of the bandit wars in Elsweyr?" Hammel asked wearily, while yanking his arrow free from one bandit's neck. "Some chief rallied several hundred buggers like this into one massive horde. They had to send a full legion down there to stamp it out."

"You saw some action then?" Clob probed, glancing up at the crumbling stone remains of a statue. Hammel didn't answer. Realizing that the Nord wasn't going to respond to the question, the Orc moved on. "We are finally arriving at the levels where the ancient Nord's actually interred their dead. Assuming Farengar's data is correct, after passing through several burial chambers, we should come to the Hall of Stories. Beyond that, the central chamber where Denbar the Cruel is interred. He should be buried with the stone. Assuming there aren't any more bandits, we should have little trouble recovering it."

"There's more in these tunnels than simple bandits," Hammel stated cryptically, stepping over the fallen lizard's corpse, another arrow already nocked. He seemed determined to cover the tunnel leading further down. It was darker and more ominous than the previous level's they'd explored, the tunnel reminding Clob of an animal's gaping maw. It was far from the first place he wanted to go exploring.

Summoning a floating orb of mage light was child's play to the experienced spell-caster; maintaining it caused very little drain on his magika reserves. Mentally sending the glow into the tunnel ahead, the Orc stated mildly. "Well then, let's find out what is."

In the deafening silence that followed, the Mage was faintly aware of something, a soft noise. At first, he thought it might be the wind, until he remembered how far down they'd come. It hardly seemed likely there would be a fresh breeze originating from deep within the catacombs. Something else must have caused it.

"Hey, you hear that?" Ria commented, clearly discerning the same noise the Orsimer had. That confirmed he wasn't hearing things. "Sounded like," she paused, leaning farther down the tunnel, straining her ears against the darkness. "Someone calling for help."

"Whatever that sound is," Hammel announced authoritatively, "It's worth our time. I'll take point, Clob, dim the light a bit but keep it going. Ria, watch our backs, no telling what might come springing out at us down here." Almost unnecessarily, he looked back, adding, "It's most likely a trap, keep that in mind."

"I doubt I'll forget it," Clob responded, gesturing down the tunnel with a green hand, "Shall we?"

Leading the way, Hammel descended into the darkness, bow in hand. Shrugging his shoulders noncommittally, Clob followed him.

* * *

><p>"Thank you for your promptness," Galmar Stone-Fist ground out, his voice sounding just as rocky as Lianna remembered. Dinner had been lovely, the remainder of the evening, better. But work was what she longed to be doing, and was glad to be back at it.<p>

"Our pleasure, Galmar," Ralof responded smoothly, flashing his million septim smile at the Stormcloak general.

"That remains to be seen," the bear-armored warrior responded gruffly, unfolding the map in his hands. Placing it on the table before them, Galmar stabbed a finger at the road leading from Falkreath to Winterhold. It was long, winding and, in general, unpleasant. Not a place Lianna would care to spend a whole lot of time on. "As you know," the general began, wasting no time with pleasantries, "Jarl Ulfric has formed the Helgen survivors into one band. He believes their combined experiences make them exceptional soldiers. This mission is a test of the Jarl's theory; don't prove him wrong." Galmar didn't sound too optimistic, but Lianna had never heard him speaking with an upbeat tone about anything. The closest he'd come to excited was when he led that raid against a band of Thalmor Justiciars, the Dominion's anti-Talos agents. He'd been almost salivating with anticipation before the attack.

"Why am I here, Galmar?" Ralof asked, not an unreasonable question considering the circumstances. It wasn't every day a basic foot soldier was called into conversation with Jarl Ulfric's right-hand man. At least he'd washed his face. His hair could use a comb, but with Ralof, convincing him to comb his hair was akin to getting her pa's cow to milk. Near impossible. At least Ralof didn't kick her when she pulled to hard.

"You're here, because I picked you to lead this band." Galmar stated simply. Ralof's eyes went so wide for a moment, Lianna was worried they'd fall out of their sockets.

"Thank-you s-" He began, his voice shaky, before Stone-Fist cut him off, saving them both additional embarrassment.

"Save your gratitude, Ralof," the older Nord growled, "Doing this mission right will be thanks enough for me. My reputation is on the line with this one." Following that, he stated each word individually, with enough force to batter down Solitude's main gates. "Do. Not. Embarrass. Me. Bone-Breaker."

He turned away from the map for a moment, looking back against the wall. "I picked you," he began, meaty hands clasped behind his back, "Because, despite your taste in women, you've proven yourself a true son of Skyrim. You took charge during the chaos at Helgen; that has impressed me."

Lianna bit her tongue hard enough to taste blood. Sure, she was used to hearing these comments every day, it didn't make them any easier to take. Many Nords didn't care who her adopted parents were, how she'd be raised or even what she did. All they saw was golden skin and pointy ears, and it was enough for them.

Ralof didn't seem pleased either, but kept his mouth shut. Though, his wife knew him well enough to tell he'd battled down the urge to fight. His muscles had tensed and his jaw clasped tightly, both tell-tale signs.

"Your mission," Galmar continued, either unaware of or ignoring Ralof's agitation at the insult so casually levelled against his wife. While Stone-Fist was still looking away from the couple, Lianna knew he could feel ever twitch on their faces. She hadn't survived as long as she had without reading unseen cues. "Involves raiding an Imperial caravan."

Turning back towards the duo, the scarred warrior jabbed a finger tersely at the map, as if it was his enemy. "As you know, we are outnumbered. While loathed to perform the action, but seeing little choice, Jarl Ulfric has hired several bands of mercenaries." Galmar spat a wad of phlegm on the floor viciously, speaking the word "mercenaries," like it was the foulest curse he knew. "The damn bastards want a paycheck, or they'll leave. I'd just as soon let them, but we need, the 'Dogs of War' at least. They're bolstering our forces here," he stated, tracing a finger around the small camp in Haafingar Hold, near Meridia's shrine.

"We're low on resources," Ralof pointed out, perhaps feeling like he was now supposed to give his opinion considering his new rank.

Turning to face them, the older Stormcloak smiled, "That's why we're going to go borrow some from the Legion. I'm sure they won't mind."

Lianna nodded coyly, "I'm sure."

"The Imperials will be moving slowly down this road," The veteran pointed back at the route he'd been showcasing earlier. "They'll have no choice; it's too uneven to move quickly. According to our best estimates, there will be, at least, three dozen legionnaires and a battle-mage. Nothing your boys can't handle. What's important is the contents of those three carts. Bring them all back in completion; we'll decide later what portion the mercenaries get."

"Do you have any questions?" The gruff Nord asked, looking pointedly at the duo, arms folded across his barrel of a chest.

"No Sir." Lianna stated and Ralof nodded by way of response.

"Good," the Stormblade responded, clearly not in the mood for questions. "Go, gather your men. You leave at dawn," Galmar ordered casually, waving his hand dismissively. "I want that gold in Windhelm three days from now. Understood, Bone-Breaker?"

Responding to his new title without hesitation, Ralof saluted, "Understood Stormblade."

"Good, now carry on."

The duo walked out of the castle, both feeling a little dazed. It wasn't until they were standing in the cobblestone streets, snow falling around them, the Palace of Kings' gate slamming shut behind them. that Ralof stated, "Did I just get promoted?"

"You know," Lianna responded casually, "I think you might have."

* * *

><p>"Why, in the name of the Eight, are we hiring Mercenaries?" Hadvar asked Prefect Quintus Decimus calmly, helmet clutched under his arm, posed exactly like his friend.<p>

Quintus was so proud of his helmet, the full face guard protected him from most blows while the horse-hair plume looked magnificent when the wind was blowing. Quintus himself wasn't much to look at, he was tall, but not overly so, with a simple beard and rather plain features. His skin was the drab olive tone of every Imperial, his face a mess of scar tissue. Not that Hadvar cared to look at him much anyway. It was Rikke that held his interest.

The Legate was everything Hadvar wanted in a woman, strong, capable, and able to drink many a man under the table. Where others saw hair of stringy black, he saw locks of midnight, where others might knock her weathered features, worn after years of war, he saw a treasure, maybe a little rough around the edges. Where others saw only the soldier he saw the woman beneath. Pity Quintus seemed aware of this crush and teased him endlessly about it.

The Nord legionnaire wasn't sure, but he could swear he heard Rikke muttered, "By the NINE," under her breath. Of course, a rumor floated around that she still followed Talos, almost every high-ranking Nord was slandered with one, but Hadvar didn't put any stock in it. He'd put Talos behind him when the order came. If he, a lowly soldier, had done his duty, how could a Legate do any less?

"We are hiring mercenaries," Rikke stated coldly, "To prevent the rebels from doing the same. We know they've already acquired at least three bands." Her battered features hardened, gaze titled down towards the stack of reports covering her desk. "The Ulfric I know would never stoop to this…"

Not wanting Rikke to divulge anything from the Great War which might prove embarrassing, Hadvar cut in, "We've determined which three bands they are, right Quintus?"

His friend snapped too, picking up the non-spoken cue. "Oh, right." Pulling out his notes, Quintus cleared his throat before speaking in a crisp voice that rang to every corner of the Castle Dour war room. "We believe them to be, 'The Dogs of War,' 'The Children of the Axe,' and 'The Sons of War.'" He paused a moment, a rueful look on his face. "These mercenary bands do tend towards the dramatic when it comes to choosing names."

Much to Hadvar's relief, Rikke cracked a small smile. "That they do. Are you positive on those identifications? Knowing our enemy is the key to victory."

"We're sure with the Sons anyway," Quintus stated, "We received visual conformation of Hector."

Rikke raised a single dark eyebrow. "They brought that elephant all the way up to Skyrim?"

"You expect Tamriel's most famous mercenary band to go to war without their mascot? It's Hector the War-Elephant!" Quintus looked far too excited about the giant beast of war for Hadvar's comfort; then again, his friend was a little bit eccentric. "My niece has got a little stuffed toy that looks exactly like him."

"Well, for your niece's sake, we'll spare the elephant at least," Legate Rikke stated with a smile, winking at Hadvar. She knew as well as he did that Quintus didn't have a niece, the elephant was more than likely his. Still, Quintus was an exceptional officer, stuffed elephant not withstanding.

"How goes the search for the Jagged Crown?" The Legate asked after a brief pause, looking at both her underlings in turn. "Quaestor?"

Remembering his newly earned title, Hadvar snapped to attention, "Nothing as of yet Legate, but we still have men on it."

"General Tullius believes this search to be a waste of time," Quintus piped up, his Imperial accent firmly reminding the Nords of his personal opinions. "Why do we need this fairy-tale crown? When the moot comes around, the Jarls will choose Elisif for High Queen. She's the logical choice."

Rikke gave a sad smile, leaning on the table with her gauntlet-ed forearms. "Nords aren't as logical as you Imperials, Quintus. We follow our hearts, as you can see from the war, that's often a mistake."

"General Tullius says Ulfric is nothing but a power-hungry dictator," Quintu parroted again, obviously seeing what Rikke was referring to.

"Watch your tone," the Legate stated grimly, "Ulfric was my friend once." Her gaze fell, "He just made some poor decisions."

Castle Dour became almost deathly silent, no sounds from Solitude's busy market could be heard through its thick stone walls.

"The crown is needed to help legitimize Elisif's claim," Hadvar began, once again, breaking the awkward silence. "If she had it, it could sway the opinions of several Jarls. With that crown, we might have a very real chance of restoring peace to Skyrim."

"One accessory can do all that?" The sole Imperial in the room stated, sounding unconvinced.

"You underestimate the power of image, my friend," Hadvar responded passionately, "The Jagged Crown is a powerful symbol, one straight out of our greatest myths."

"You Nords put so much stock in your myths," Quintus noted. There was nothing negative about it, merely neutral, like he was casually stating an observation.

"Aye," Rikke said softly, "That we do."

* * *

><p>It was definitely a scream from help. As the trio of adventurers blazed their way through the tunnels of Bleak Falls Barrow, moving at a hurried but silent pace, Hammel was able to pick up the noise more clearly. Something along the lines of "Oh gods, help me, it's gonna come back!"<p>

"He seems to be in great distress," Clob observed in that same casual tone he reserved for everything that wasn't an exciting new discovery. The Orc was so calm, Hammel's old drill sergeant would be jealous.

"Being trapped alone in a tomb can do that to a person," the former scout responded phlegmatically. The bowstring felt good under his fingers, taunt and yet supple. The old Imperial Legion design slipped right back into his calloused hand as if it'd never left. They were close now; the screams very strong and clear now, giving them an almost perfect trail to follow. Though it wouldn't have been too hard to find it regardless, all Nordic tombs were built along a singular design; there weren't a lot of side passages.

They were arriving at a massive antechamber, the last room before the actual burial chambers. In times past, the Nords would have used it to wash up, eat a quick meal or say a few prayers before going to the bodies of their ancestors. It would be large enough for a good number of bandits to hide within, waiting to launch a brutal ambush.

Clob still had his quarterstaff clutched tightly in hand, Ria, her blade drawn.

_Good. If he doesn't get a spell off at least he won't be helpless._

A pair of arches stood proud, despite all the ware around them, looking down on those who would imply they'd failed in their duties. Several moldy splinters decorated the cobblestone floor, implying that a set of doors used to sit between them. No brigands came barreling out of the chamber to do battle, but the sound of the panicked man resonated outward, confirming his presence.

"Arrow formation, just like last time," Hammel ordered quietly, holding up two fingers, jabbing at either side of him. Ria nodded, hefting her shield and swinging her sword. Clob simply nodded, grinding the butt of his quarterstaff into the ground.

"Go."

Dashing into the room, Hammel drew the bowstring back to his ear, arrow ready to take the first assailant to appear. The Nord was confident he could drop one, maybe two before he had to draw steel.

No one appeared.

The chamber's sole occupant was firmly held in place against a far side, pinned to the wall with, what appeared to be, giant spider webs. Now that he glanced around, the whole chamber was covered with webs, glancing downward he saw the entire floor was coated with them. His boots made a squishing sound as he walked. In the corner, where a shrine to Arkay would have once sat, was instead dominated by giant, spherical, cream colored, objects.

_Azura preserv__e me. They're…_

"Eggs," Ria said in a tone implying she was struggling to maintain her sense of calm due to rising fear and revulsion. "Eggs, for spiders." He'd figured that out without her help, shockingly enough.

Upon seeing the trio, the webbed man shrieked at them, "Hurry! Cut me down before it returns!"

Hammel was about to ask, what in Oblivion "It," was, when it decided to make its prescience known. A rusted metal gate in the ceiling above, intended to let supplies from storage down when needed, screamed in protest as it was batted aside.

Dropping from above, blocking their path to both the way down and the unfortunate man, the monstrous spider gave a snarl. It was easily as tall as Gerdur's home, and as wide as a cart. It blinked its eyes fiercely, venom dripping freely from its fangs to form foul smelling pools on the floor. The spider looked at the trio as if they were no more than a snack, and not an impressive one at that.

"Oh my," Clob said with all the emotion of ordering a pint. "We seem to have a small problem."

"So it would seem." Hammel responded, matching the Orc's tone.

There was a pause, as the trio and the massive arachnid stared at one another, neither backing down. After a moment, Ria piped up, "Would this be a bad time to mention that I really don't like spiders?"

* * *

><p>AN: As for Dawnguard, I won't feature it in this story. I do intend to make a possible sequel, which would resolve around Dawnguard, some unused quests and any additional possible DLC.<p>

While some elements from the DLC(Ie Crossbows) will probably work their way into the story, the "Tyranny of the Sun" angle won't be mentioned.

Thanks again for your support!


	10. Dusty Bonewalkers

AN: First of all, I make no excuses for my behavior, this chapter is unbearably late. However, this is due to not one, but two beta's abandoning this project without informing me. Fortunately my mother stepped in and agreed to edit my chapters from now on. Hopefully this will improve both the quality of the story and the speed with which it is written.

Thank you for your patience.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 10<span>**

**Dusty Bonewalkers**

_"During the ancient days, when dragons ruled Tamriel, many of Skyrim's Nordic population venerated them as gods. While their priests were given incredible powers, even the rank and file believers were blessed by their dragon overlords. Though many historians would use the term cursed instead. These 'draugr,' as they came to be known, were tainted with unlife. They would wander their tombs forever, doomed to a lonely existence of eternal service to their priests, until the return of the dragons. Considering there have been no dragon sightings in thousands of years, it seems the only danger the draugr pose is to unwary bandits and would-be-plunderers."- Excerpt from "A Local's Guide to Skyrim: Fourth Revised Edition." Written by Yander Bearclaw, 2E 234, current revision 4E 187_

The spider moved first.

Spitting a wad of poison at Hammel, the arachnid scuttled forward with a chilling hiss. Throwing himself aside, the Nord felt the glob of venom fly past, splattering harmlessly against the far wall. Wrenched from his hand with the force of the dive, the ex-scout's bow slid away, spinning away into a distant corner.

Even as the ex-Legionnaire pulled a blade free, Clob was springing into action, launching three fireballs at the spider rapidly. While it managed to skitter out of the way of the first two, the third smacked directly into the beast's thorax. The scent of burning hair filled the air, while the giant arachnid began sizzling, but took little notice of the wound.

Ria dashed at the monster, a look on her face halfway between terror and anger, screaming war cries shrilly at the top of her lungs. Lashing out with its two front legs, the spider struck the Imperial, who despite her shield-block, flew back halfway across the chamber.

Clob narrowly dodged the flying woman, yet his concentration wasn't shaken in the least. The Orsimer sent another two orbs of flame at the giant creature, both striking it but doing little more than tanning its thick hide.

Both blades held firmly in hand, Hammel took the opportunity to inflect some quick damage. Dashing forward, he struck out with both weapons, aiming at the leg closest to him. He'd been a soldier long enough to know that striking the beast on its armored forelimbs would be pointless. The sensitive joints, on the other hand would prove ideal targets.

Slashing at any visible joints, the Nord was rewarded with a spray of stinking black ichor and a squeal of pain. With its good back leg, the beast slammed Hammel roughly in the face with a blunt limb. The former legionnaire tasted blood as his head snapped back, skull ringing. The spider had struck him with the force of a cart horse; the only thing stopping him from flying across the chamber like Ria was the poor angle of the blow.

Spitting out a wad of blood, Hammel struck against the wounded joint again, determined to sever it, if possible. The other Companion had clambered back to her feet, repeatedly jabbing her sword at the beast's midsection, with varying degrees of success.

Even as the spider lashed out at the two warriors with its legs, it shot another stream of venom at the mage, determined to stop his rain of fire. Raising a ward without a second's thought, the Orc calmly blocked the poison, reflecting it away harmlessly. Switching spells on the fly, the Orsimer responded to the attack with a lightning bolt. With incredible precision, Clob launched the bolt, blasting the arachnid across the face, scarring it and causing one of the monster's eyes to explode in a shower of dark gore.

The creature rushed forward, snarling in agony, barreling past Ria and Hammel to get at the Orc. The Nord fell to the ground as the beast shoved him aside. Biting ferociously, the spider sunk its mandibles deep into Clob's shoulder, snaring the mage. The mage roared in agony, unleashing a torrent of flame from one hand, directly into the creature's face; the other limb was useless, pinned to his side by the spider's powerful jaws.

Taking the opportunity provided by the beast's focus on Clob, Ria rolled underneath the arachnid and sunk her blade deeply into its soft underbelly. Hammel went to Ria's aid, hacking at the spider's limbs, picking a fresh target this time. Chopping at the uninjured leg with all the grace of a hurried butcher, Hammel was rewarded with the feel of warm blood striking his face. Both Imperial forged blades bit deep, crippling yet another limb.

Underneath the monster, Ria yanked her Skyforged blade free from the beast's underbelly, before ramming back into the creature's flesh with the force of an Orc berserker. Clob grit his teeth, maintaining the stream of fire despite the pain.

The spider began to buckle; the process hastened as the warrior went from leg to leg, hacking away with almost religious fervor. The arachnid flailed its remaining working legs, but to no avail. Hammel knew the beast's pattern now and wasn't about to be struck again.

Ria decided that she'd rather be out from under the creature, and rolled away from it. The monster released Clob and collapsed in the dust where Ria had been a moment before. The Orc staggered away, good hand desperately clutching his mangled shoulder. The monster let out a pitiful squeak of pain, trying to rise again, but failed, unable to support its body with four ruined legs.

Hammel moved in front of the giant monster, planted his boot firmly on the creature's head and sunk both blades into its face. The tender flesh gave way and the beast shut its remaining eyes permanently.

Glancing backwards, he noticed a stream of green blood dripping steadily down the Orsimer's formerly pristine robes. The Orc had slumped back against a far wall, good hand clutched tightly around the damaged shoulder. Based on his posture, Hammel would wager a guess that the mage's joint was broken, no doubt infected with the deadly venom of the spider. Yanking his swords free in a spray of dark blood, the Nord moved to aid Clob. However, Ria beat him to it.

Pulling a healing potion free from her belt and uncorking it in one smooth motion, the Imperial handed it to him. "Here, drink this. I got it off one of the bandits; looks strong."

Taking it from her gratefully, Clob revealed his wounds to Hammel's trained eye. It seemed his suspicions were indeed correct; the green-skin's shoulder was mangled beyond recognition, ragged flesh hanging in strips, blood dripping down profusely.

Clob chugged the contents of the potion bottle quickly, before closing his eyes. Hammel didn't feel like watching the Orc's bones and flesh re-knit, an immensely painful process, so he approached the man tied up in the spider's lair. However he first returned his bow to its perch on his back. The weapon was a gift from Jarl Balrguuf, he wouldn't abandon it for any reason.

The death of the giant spider seemed to have greatly relaxed the man. Instead of flailing around screaming, like he had when the trio entered, he sat patiently in the webbing, waiting to be freed.

Upon closer inspection, Hammel realized that the mer was a Dark Elf, though an incredibly scrawny one. A thin, black beard covered his face in patches where it decided to stick, most likely out of a sense of pity. He was dressed in a combination of fur and leather like the rest of the bandits the trio had slaughtered their way through to get to the antechamber.

"Excuse me," he asked after looking at the ex-scout for a moment, "Would you cut me down please? I greatly appreciate what you've already done here, however."

The Dunmer's excessive politeness didn't go unnoticed by Hammel. "Who are you?" He responded tersely, returning one of his blades to its sheath. Taking a grip on a handful of webs, the Nord began sawing away at it with his remaining weapon.

"Arvel, Arvel the Swift," the bandit responded. "No doubt you slaughtered those brigands who left me for dead?" Hammel nodded, knowing full well that this 'prisoner' was, without a doubt, a member of the gang. "You're here for the claw I'd wager."

The former scout was taken momentarily aback. "What claw?"

"The golden claw, the one we…" Catching himself, the Dunmer rapidly back-peddled, "That is to say, the one they stole from the Riverwood Trader. I thought maybe you'd been hired by the proprietor to retrieve it?" Looking past Hammel at the still healing Clob, Arvel commented, "You certainly look the type." Shaking his head, while the Nord got one arm free, the bandit snapped back to his thoughts, and looked at the warrior. "Whatever you do, don't return the claw until we get the treasure! The claw is the key to the lock. Through the Hall of Stories, you'll find the loot! Get me out of here and I'll show you." His formally eloquent tone rapidly dissolved into incoherent babbling. This bandit, whoever he was, seemed obsessed and most likely insane on top of that.  
>"What do you think I'm doing?" the newest Companion responded somewhat shortly, freeing the Dunmer's other arm, "Give me a minute and I'll have your legs out." <em>With any luck, this reward he's babbling on about will be the Dragonstone. The sooner we get it, the sooner we can leave this damnable tomb.<em>

Slicing the bonds on the Dunmer's leg, Hammel stepped back as the Dark Elf fell to the ground. "Now, about this treasure?"

Arvel responded to the Nord's kindness by punching him in the face.

While the Nord had anticipated something like that would happen, he wasn't expecting it the second the bandit's boots touched ground. The action caught him completely off guard. The blow connected with his jaw, an area unprotected by his helmet, and staggered the ex-Legionnaire backwards a few steps. Belatedly, Hammel realized that his fallback had blocked Clob's line of sight, preventing the mage from frying the treacherous Dunmer like a slab of beef.

"Ha! Why should I share my treasure with you?" the bandit cackled, clearly showcasing his mental state, before dashing down the tunnel away from the trio and moving deeper into the barrow. He seemed unconcerned with the darkness around him, or the fact he was moving into unknown territory. His sole objective seemed to be getting his hands on the treasure he'd been babbling on about earlier.

_He isn't getting very far._

"Runner!" Hammel shouted back to his followers, while simultaneously slamming his second blade into its sheath. Dashing down the tunnel after the bandit, the Nord threw himself after Arvel. Ria shouted something at him, but he blocked her out. It was time for hunting; he had no intention of letting this thug get away with sucker-punching him.

Arvel's Swift moniker was clearly given with good reason; the Dunmer had a sizable lead, setting a blistering pace down the darkened tunnels, maintaining balance despite the hallway's downward slope. While the bandit may have been fast, Hammel doubted he could outrun an arrow.

Slowing his pace long enough to withdraw his bow, the ex-scout made sure to keep Arvel in his sights.

The chase hardly fatigued him.

He'd run at his current pace far longer, across swamps, tundras, and deserts. While he couldn't move much faster, he knew Arvel couldn't outlast him. Unfortunately for the Dunmer, Hammel didn't have time for a long pursuit.

The tunnel was starting to level out, a set of iron doors stood closed at the end of the hall, promising the beginning of the burial chambers. The Compaion's hand went for his quiver, feeling the feathered tips of his arrows as Arvel put his shoulder to the doors. They flew aside with an echoing crash. The Dunmer barreled into the room. While moving, Hammel nocking an arrow; the upcoming chamber seemed as good an opportunity as any to cripple this bandit.

Flying past the door, Hammel saw Arvel nearing the other end of the burial chamber. Directly across from the Nord was a winding tunnel, leading into the next set of burial rooms. If Arvel got into those tunnels, an arrow shot would prove difficult. The warrior didn't want a full length chase throughout the Barrow, in case more monsters were lurking. He couldn't focus on both his chase and combat. This little race had to end.

Dropping to one knee, the Nord pulled his bowstring back to his ear, looked down the shaft and released. The arrow soared across the chamber with deadly precision, striking the Dunmer in his unarmored calf. The arrow punched clean into the limb, lodging itself firmly halfway through it. Shrieking in pain, the bandit found his leg suddenly failing, and collapsed in an undignified heap.

Unfortunately, his momentum carried him into one of the burial slits, slamming into the body interred within. Corpse and brigand tumbled to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs.

The chamber was simply designed, looking no different from many of the others the trio had passed. What made the burial chamber unique was the numerous man-sized niches carved into the wall. Each was occupied by a body, pristinely laid out, but suffering from various stages of decay. Some were little more than skeletons, others, gray husks, but with the majority of flesh and muscle attached. The body Arvel acquainted himself with was one of the latter. It also didn't appear particularly fond of him.

The corpse staggered to its feet, groaning with surprising vigor. Arvel looked up at the undead with mounting horror. The bonewalker gazed around the burial chamber for a moment, as if sizing up its surroundings, before noticing the pitiful whelp at its feet.

The brigand's attempt to crawl away was both pathetic and useless. He'd barely managed to get half a body length before the corpse grabbed him. Lifting the squirming Dark Elf up by his neck, seemingly without effort, the bonewalker stared into the bandit's eyes with its own. The undead's were a milky white, containing no pupils and making no movements. After staring at the brigand for a moment with its empty gaze, the creature snapped Arvel's neck one-handed, letting his corpse fall to the floor. Stepping over the remains of the now late Arvel the Swift, the dead man set his eyes on Hammel.

Without hesitation, the Nord drew and launched another arrow. It struck the creature in the chest, digging deep. It also seemed to have no effect whatsoever since the undead shrugged it off, apparently without even noticing it. While it strode forward, a second arrow joined the first, then a third. Finally, Hammel's forth shot launched a shaft directly into the monster's brain, shattering the skull. The creature collapsed, looking almost as lifeless now as it had to begin with.

"Draugr!" Hammel muttered aloud, staring at the body he'd just dispatched. Morbidly, he looked at the four arrows sticking out of its body like a pincushion and did some math. The numbers weren't promising for his quiver.

"Did you say draugr?" Clob asked, sounding slightly out of breath. The Nord turned to see the orc and Ria, both looking a little worse for wear. The mage's beard was plastered to his face with sweat, and he seemed far paler than before. Considering how much blood he'd lost, Hammel was impressed with the Orsimer's hardiness, but expected little else from an Orc, even if he was a mage. Ria's war paint had run, but otherwise, she looked chipper as ever.

The mage reached into the front satchel on his robe, withdrawing his small notebook and quill. Sparing a quick glance past Hammel, he observed the fallen undead on the floor. "Extraordinary!" he breathed, scratching a few notes rapidly into his little book, "I hope you won't mind letting me study it a moment…"

"They might," Ria responded, pointing past the Nord at the wall-slits. Turning with a feeling of dread, the newest Companion heard the unmistakable sound of old bones creaking as five more draugr clambered out from their burial shelves. Rotting beards and ruined armor was the only proof that these monsters had once been proud Nord warriors. Unlike the draugr Hammel had previously dispatched, these undead warriors were armed. Each carried an axe or blade forged in ancient designs, the likes of which hadn't been used in thousands of years. Despite their ancient appearance, the weapons looked capable of easily cutting through a man's flesh.

The lead undead, a short man as wide as a door and with a knotted beard reaching down to his bony knees, pointed right at Hammel. He howled some gibberish in a tongue that the ex-legionnaire didn't understand, and then rushed him, ancient axe drawn. Clob was already throwing fireballs as the Nord fired off a quick shot with his bow, striking the bearded draugr in the forehead. The monster's head snapped back, but his advance didn't slow. Two of his fellow dead flanked him, each determined to get a piece of Companion. Throwing aside his bow, Hammel drew both blades, crossing them across his chest to form an X shape. "Come on then," he murmured, looking the dead in their unseeing eyes. The lead draugr's head snapped forward again, returning to its normal position, as if to meet the challenge. One of his backing minions was struck with an orb of flame. The orc seemed to have already made short work of his first opponent. Breaking away to battle the Orsimer and with Ria tied up battling the other independent bonewalker, that left the leader and his lackey for Hammel.

Striding forward purposefully, the lead draugr swung his axe at the Nord. It was a slow strike and one the warrior easily dodged and countered. While the dead man may have been moving slower because of his recent reanimation, he was still unnaturally tough. The Companion's sword pierced undead flesh, punching clean into its torso. The monster hardly seemed to notice, instead striking with its axe again. Ducking the blow, Hammel countered with a quick overhead slash, neatly decapitating the draugr. The ex-legionnaire kicked the falling body into the other onrushing dead, staggering the bonewalker's progress.

Leaping forward, swords in hand, the Nord easily dodged a crude downward strike, sliding by his opponent. As he went, the Nord hacked at its leg, removing the limb below the knee. The undead stumbled, caught off guard and off balance by the sudden removal. Rising while simultaneously striking upward, the warrior neatly bisected his opponent's head. The risen corpse collapsed, even its unholy life not strong enough to survive a wound of such magnitude. Shaking the gore off his blades, Hammel glanced back at his followers. "Everyone in one piece?"

Ria didn't answer, she simply gave a smug grin, boot planted firmly on the back of her fallen enemy. "I appear to be so," Clob answered, casting a wayward glance at the ash piles at his feet. Apparently, the mage had left little of his opponent, leaving reanimation impossible. It seemed he'd battled his fair share of undead before.

_Interesting…_

"Anyone else feel like facing us?" Ria bellowed confidently, arms held apart in a "bring it on," gesture, a mile-wide grin stretched across her face.

"I'm sure there will be plenty more draugr to challenge us, Ria,"the Orc responded casually, once again fishing into his haversack for his notebook. "Unless my information is incorrect, I understand that Nords bury in mass."

"You aren't wrong," Hammel responded, bending down to investigate the rapidly cooling remains of Arvel. The bandit had mentioned something about a claw being the key to great treasure. He highly doubted the now deceased would flee this way unless he had it on him. While the Nord wasn't sure if it would come in handy, he didn't want to leave this area without it in his possession, whatever it was.

Clob was murmuring to himself, scratching away in his notebook. Ria stood guard, blade clutched firmly in hand, looking nervous, despite her best efforts to the contrary. Ignoring both of them, the former scout instead focused on the task before him. The bandit's pockets proved uneventful, empty of anything that might possibly be a key. However, after flipping him over, the Nord discovered a small knapsack attached to the corpse's belt. The bag was sealed shut, closed with a small lock. Hammel's inability to find a key didn't delay him for long. Drawing the Kiss, the Nord slashed Arvel's satchel open.

Various contents spilled out. Half a sweet roll, several dice carved from animal bone, a few septims, and a roll of paper. However, two specific items drew Hammel's attention. One was a journal, clearly written by the bandit himself and worth reading through. The other was far more curious than a simple diary. A small replica of a dragon's foot, made entirely from solid gold came rolling out of the bag, landing curiously lopsided. Picking up the unusual object, the Nord turned it over, looking at it from all angles. While the top portion of the claw was made with meticulous attention to detail, down to toenail length, the bottom was instead composed of three different animal shapes. The beasts were crudely formed and, if he was right, a moth, bear and owl, three animals not uncommon in Skyrim. Pocketing the curiosity, the Nord tossed the journal at Clob.

"Here," he stated as the green-skin caught the book one-handed, "See what you can make of this. Once you're done, let's pack up. I want to get this stone and get out."

Clobnak gro-Grogork did not respond. Instead he began flipping through the book in total silence. After a moment, he spoke, "It is good that you recovered this journal. I'll explain why on the way." Stashing the diary within the confines of his haversack, the Orsimer stood to his feet, "We've wasted enough time in this foul tomb."

* * *

><p>"The Nord's do craft compelling architecture," Clob observed casually, despite his earlier comment, gaze firmly latched on the chamber's walls. The trio had battled their way through several other swarms of draugr, encounters as tedious as they were simple. The bonewalkers were no match for the superior weapons, movements and teamwork of the adventurers.<p>

Still, the undead had slowed their progress to a crawl. By all accounts, Bleak Falls Barrow was one of the smaller tombs in Skyrim, but that didn't mean Hammel wanted to spend more than a day in it. He had plans to rest for the night in Riverwood before traveling back to Whiterun. The journey down the mountain to the hamlet wasn't one he intended to make at night.

After what felt like an eternity of exploring but couldn't have been more than a few hours, the band finally reached the Hall of Stories. Clob's beacon of mage light illuminated the entire chamber clearly enough for the wall carvings to be read. Like all tombs of great warriors, the stories told were of someone's mighty deeds. They showed a warrior, Hammel assumed was Denbar, slaughtering many foes, both man and beast, plundering great hoards and claiming numerous women. Like everything else about the tomb, the Orsimer seemed fascinated with them.

"How intriguing," he murmured, running a green hand across the ancient carvings with an expression of reverence on his face. "These people never cease to amaze me…"

"As happy as I am for you," Ria responded a little tersely, the difficulty of the quest starting to grate on her nerves, "I want you to help us with this." The petite Imperial and the ex-scout had crossed through the Hall rather quickly, moving towards the final resting place of Denbar, the cruel. The only problem was the rather large stone door blocking the path. It was circular in design, yet large enough to easily block off the actual burial chamber itself. The obstruction was split into three portions, each stacked atop the other. On each portion of the door was one of three different animals carved into the stone; a moth, a whale and a bear. Finally, in the very center of the door, was a small disc of gold with three small pressure points carved into it. There was no obvious handle or other means of opening it.

"The door? Yes, I was anticipating this." The Orc closed his journal, replacing it with the one he took from Arvel. "According to the Dunmer's notes, the Claw, this golden contraption recovered from his person, is the key to unlocking the door. May I see it?"

Hammel withdrew the Golden Claw, handing it to the Orsimer as he approached the door. "I think I see where you're going with this…"

Clob nodded, "I was puzzled at first However, the answer became plain to me after I studied the item. On its underside," the mage flipped the Claw over, showcasing the carvings on the bottom, "the animals carved here, owl, bear and moth, are exactly the same as those carved onto the door. This cannot be a coincidence."

Striding up to the door, while the others look on, Clob began spinning the portions of the door. Interestingly, each individual portion moved smoothly on its own, the discs spinning smoothly. "These puzzle locks require the correct combination of symbols to be displayed before the key can be inserted."

"That's just swell," Ria pointed out, ramming her longsword back in its sheath dejectedly, "except we don't have the combination."

Hammel stroked his goatee a moment, pondering the question. "I think we do." Ria flashed him a look suggesting that she questioned his sanity. "The bottom of the claw has the symbols arranged bear, moth, and owl. If this claw is the key, like Arvel said, that would be the door's combination."

"I have deduced as much," the mage respond, locking the owl into place. "This theory should be tested." With precise hand movements, the Orc arranged the other two rings, matching the pattern perfectly with the claw's. "Now, if you would be so kind?"

Clob stepped aside, flashing a hand at the door like he was some kind of professional greeter at a fancy tavern and passing Hammel the claw.

Placing the golden object snugly into the door's center, the Nord was rewarded with each toe fitting, quite smoothly, into the various notches. Gripping the Claw by its handle, the warrior twisted it to the left.

There was a rumbling noise, vibrations running over the floor that each could feel through their boot soles. With a screech of stone on stone, the door descended, slowly into the floor, leaving the path clear.

"Ingenious, these ancient Nords," Clob stated with a tone of respect. "I feel that, perhaps, they could have challenged the Dwemer in creativity."

"Wow!" Ria breathed in awe, staring past the duo at the tomb beyond. It was certainly an impressive view. Beyond the door lay what appeared to be a small cave. An opening in the ceiling allowed light to stream down from above, bathing the whole cavern with a warm glow. A river ran down its center, splitting off at several points. A waterfall roared down the far end of the cave, almost deafening those in the enclosed space. Several pines grew to towering heights underneath the daunting ceiling. In the very center of the massive underground hollow was a raised platform, lovingly carved from the solid rock. It was easily the size of the entrance chamber at the beginning of the Barrow, with a massive curved wall rising behind it. At the very center of the platform sat a sarcophagus carved out of the rock it sat upon. Chests and other gifts surrounded it, given to the keeper of the stone by admirers and those who feared his wrath.

"I can't believe he was right," Hammel stated calmly, "That smug bastard was right!" He glanced over at Ria, "Don't tell him I said that."

The Imperial smiled, continuing to gaze around the miniature forest.

Clob stabbed his quarterstaff into the ground, making frantic gestures with both hands. A small glow emanated from between them, forming into a small strand of clear energy. The bolt zipped across the chamber, halting before the sarcophagus. "According to my clairvoyance spell, our prize is contained within the tomb."

Drawing his bow, the Nord began his journey across the cavern, crouched in an attempt to avoid any possible threat. He might not have seen any so far, but that didn't mean there wasn't any. He could hear Ria and Clob moving faintly behind him, keeping quiet as well.

_Bully for them._

The cavern contained an unnatural chill, just hanging in the air, Hammel couldn't explain it, but it wasn't helping his nerves. Nothing had yet to approach him, but somehow that just made it worse. It was the waiting, the gods-awful waiting.

He was nearing the stone platform when he heard it, something in the back of his mind. Faint chanting. "Do you hear that?" he whispered to his companions, head cocked back slightly over his shoulder.

"Hear what?" Ria responded tersely, painted face looking nervous. "I don't hear anything."

"It's right there," he responded, straining his ears to hear the sound clearer. It was voices chanting, in a language he couldn't understand yet sounded oddly familiar, like he should remember it but couldn't. As if he had all the pieces to the puzzle but couldn't put them together. Shaking his head didn't clear the noise, and the closer he got to the platform the louder it became.

Clearing the rest of the cavern without another word, despite the chanting in his head, the Nord hoisted himself up onto the platform. The sarcophagus sat, surrounded by its wealth. Despite its plain nature, it radiated pride. Much like its occupant, the tomb had withstood the test of time.

However, Hammel didn't notice the piles of coin, or gems or even the sarcophagus itself. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the curved wall behind it. Now that he was closer to it the chanting became louder, more prominent. It was impossible to ignore, the sound, drumming away at his mind. He couldn't quite explain it, but it seemed to be originating from the wall.

Carved into the wall were numerous strange hieroglyphs. Like the voices in his head, there was something eerily familiar about them. Even as he glanced at the unknown language, the letters started glowing, blue light illuminating the ancient carvings. Almost without thinking, he slowly began walking towards the wall.

"What in Oblivion are you doing?" Ria hissed, trying to keep the disdain out of her voice.

Hammel didn't hear her, he was enthralled with the letters, with the shapes. Something about them demanded closer inspection, more attention. Like a puppet on strings, the Nord moved forward, taking it all in. Standing nose to stone, he stared at them, giving the letters his full attention. One of them, a simple collection of curves and lines stuck out to him, worming its way into his mind, it felt powerful to him, in a way he couldn't explain.

"Fus," he murmured under his breath, letting the word roll off his tongue. Oddly enough, nothing extraordinary happened, he wasn't sure why, but the former legionnaire had expected something would.

"If you're done staring at walls," Ria responded exasperatedly, her nervous energy finally working its way to the top, "we need to get this stone and get the…"

Her words were rudely interrupted by the coffin exploding.

Exploding wasn't really the correct term; instead the lid flew off with the force of a giant's swing, smashing to bits against the celling. Rising from that sarcophagus, blade in hand, was Denbar the Cruel.

The undead hero looked much like the draugr the band had been dispatching for the past hour or so, albeit in much better condition. Most of his skin remained intact, though it had greatly paled, with skeleton and sinew clearly visible at several points. His famous dark plate-mail remained intact if both rusted and falling to pieces. The graying remains of a once proud beard clung stubbornly to his chin. Quickfrost, his famous longsword, waited patiently in its master's hand to spill blood across the stones.

The undead hero gave one look at Clob before shouting something unintelligible. Most noticeable was the massive shock wave that ripped away from the monster's mouth, launching Clob head over heels and across the room. It seemed their new foe could use the voice.

"Spread out!" Hammel shouted, going for his bow, "Hit him from behind!" Ria responded instantly, dashing around the chamber. The mage on the other hand, was a bit slower in his reaction, considering the impact his body made with the walkway.

The lurching corpse of Denbar didn't seem impressed with his trio of opponents. Even after Hammel placed several arrows in his chest with lightning speed, the draugr seemed more annoyed than anything.

Ria flanked around, lashing out at the undead warrior with her blade. Skyforged steel bit deep into unfeeling flesh, severing a hamstring long forgotten. Denbar wasn't pleased with this development and slammed his fist backward into her face. The young Imperial's head snapped back with the force of the blow, blood gushing from her nose, leaving red streaks down her pretty face. The Companion snarled through the pain, brutally shield-bashing Denbar in the face. The draugr was forced backwards onto his wounded leg, and into another volley of arrows. The steel-tipped points punched cleanly into the long dead hero's back. Throwing the bow aside with a growl, Hammel drew both blades, charging forward with mad abandon.

Clob had staggered to his feet, eyes smoldering with orcish bloodlust. Roaring with rage, the mage sent three small orbs of fire towards the long dead hero. Each impacted with a small burst, sizzling long dead skin. Denbar turned his gaze away from Ria towards his new opponent. Raising a hand, the undead Nord unleashed a cone of extreme frost from the palm of his hand. The chilling effect took place almost instantly. The Orc's green skin quickly dulled with snow almost instantaneously forming on his long beard. Despite the pain, the mage held on, tusks quivering and eyebrows freezing, responding with a cone of flame.

Despite being assaulted on all sides with fire and steel, the dragur refused to surrender quietly. With another shout in his ancient tongue, Denbar sent Ria across the room, smashing her into the word wall Hammel had been so fascinated with. Pivoting on his injured leg, Denbar swung Quickfrost at the Nord's neck, forcing him to duck. Despite the thickness of his iron helm, the ex-scout felt the blade's magical chill dancing across his scalp and down his neck.

Launching a rapid series of blows, the former legionnaire tried desperately to bring the large draugr down. Each strike cut deep, each seemingly ignored by his foe. Clob's stream of fire seemed to be wearing him down and his concentration on Hammel prevented him from sending more frost at Clob.

Ria returned to the fight, shield first, hacking away at the dragur's lower back. The might of the three determined warriors proved too much for the legendary tyrant. He didn't so much collapse as he fell apart. The combination of blows and strikes took their toll. Denbar fell into several pieces before them.

In the moments that followed only heavy breathing was heard, as each adventurer came to grips with their survival and victory. Hammel recovered first. "Clob, burn this body to ash, I don't want Denbar rising again," he ordered, sheathing both blades with a flourish. "Ria, give me a hand searching this tomb. I want that Dragonstone found, and quickly." He glanced around the chamber cautiously, "I don't want any more surprises.

"Quite right," Clob agreed, rubbing his hand together in an attempt to force some feeling back into them. "I've had my fill of tombs this day."  
>Despite himself, Hammel found himself agreeing with the Orc.<p>

* * *

><p>AN: Thank you all for your continued support despite this delay. It is greatly appreciated!<p> 


	11. Shifting Winds

AN: Once again, thanks to my mother for her beta work and thanks to all of you for your patience.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

**Shifting Winds**

"_There's a storm abrewing; mark my words. All the young lads think they can make a difference, be the hero. They're fools. When the wind begins shifting, the wise batten down their hatches and wait for it to pass. The young ones strap on their swords and rush out to do battle. Where are they now you might ask? Look over at the city graveyard; I reckon you'll find most of them there."- Last reported words of Harvec Brineheart, Kvatch Native. Circa 3E 433_

Something was wrong.

Aela sat atop one of the rolling hills overlooking Whiterun, legs crossed, feet bare, the wind ruffling her hair and light tunic as she breathed in Skyrim's crisp morning air. She was totally at ease until that feeling struck. Her sea green eyes snapped open, taking in the surrounding valley and city. Everything seemed normal enough, resembling every other early morning meditation she'd preformed. Yet something was wrong about this one. The Companion couldn't place her finger on it, but Skyrim was changing, somehow.

Her feet felt little of the morning chill; likewise, she remained warm despite being dressed only in a light linen tunic and slacks. She was a child of Skyrim, a daughter of the snow, and Companion besides. If she couldn't handle a slight chill she might as well slit her own throat. Her only weapon, the trusty dagger of skyforged steel that had carried her through numerous conflicts, remained at her side, its weight a comforting presence.

Inhaling Skyrim's chilly air through her nose, Aela pondered what could be wrong. She had no obvious answer; indeed, everything seemed to be going quite well. Hammel and Ria had returned from their mission for the Jarl, both in relatively one piece with honor intact. Skjor had been almost pleasant to Greymist ever since; a most bizarre turn of events. Ria could hardly contain her new-found pride, standing a little taller and a little straighter in the days since the Bleak Falls mission, puffing her chest out. It was good to see her reclaim a piece of her family's honor, albeit slowly.

Yet something had shifted in the moons, something she could not comprehend. It felt like a great storm was coming, one that would shake the foundations of both the Companions and possible Skyrim itself.

That seemed almost impossible however. There was already a civil war ravaging her beloved home. What possibly could be worse than that?

* * *

><p>The rebels had fallen upon them like a tide of swarming locusts.<p>

Decius Mallus slipped another bolt into his crossbow with trembling fingers, hurriedly whispering prayers to whichever of the eight divines would listen to him. All around him, his fellow soldiers died messily. Horses and men alike screamed in panic or pain. Blue-clothed warriors leapt in and out of the snow, hacking down men with all the effort of a farmer going though a field of wheat.

They had been ambushed, cut off, and were about to die.

It was supposed to be a simple mission; deliver the wagon of goods from Falkreath to Winterhold, help distribute those supplies to the troops stationed at Imperial camps there, then return home. The days had gone by smoothly, until the first snowfall. The Stormcloaks had been waiting for them in the valley pass, blending with the rocks and freshly-fallen snow, invisible to all but the most trained eye. It was painfully obvious that the rebels wanted this caravan and would do whatever it took to get it.

Decius had been lucky. With his squad stationed in the middle of the caravan, crossbows loaded but not expected to see use, he'd survived the initial volley of arrows and javelins. He'd surived the rain of death by hunkering down behind one of the wagons, even as friends and comrades were cut to ribbons. He'd returned fire, managing to kill at least one Stormcloak despite the cold fear gripping his heart. He was no coward, but he never expected to die like this.

Roughly two feet in front of him stood another legionnaire, sword gripped firmly in hand, glancing furiously about for enemies. Unfortunately, the solider failed to see the Stormcloak bounding over one of the wagons, axe gripped firmly in his right hand. He spun around just fast enough to feel the two-handed weapon biting into his face. The Stormcloak's axe split the legionnaire's head open like a egg, scattering blood and brains across the snow.

Even as the man's body stumbled to the ground, the rebel readjusted his grip on the axe's handle, taking it in both hands. Glancing around for a new victim, the rebel's eyes fell on Decius. Advancing towards him, the much larger man raised his weapon over head and bellowed loudly. Despite the chaos, Decius could clearly see his face. It was a broad and ugly thing, painted up with blue woad housing dull gray eyes staring outward from behind an ugly, wart-covered nose.

Aiming his crossbow and breathing out, moving coolly despite the pressure, the Imperial legionnaire fired. His aim was true, his weapon deadly. The launched bolt punched deep into his enemy's visage, splitting that wart-covered nose in half. His bellows turning to gargles; the rebel collapsed face down, the bolt's point pushing itself through the back of the skull.

Reaching around for another bolt, Decius tried to make sense of the chaos around him. He could faintly hear the Legion battle-mage dispatching the attacking Nords with his magic, roaring enchantments and incantations that could be heard even above the din of battle. Figuring that by the mage was as good a place as any to make his stand, the soldier finished reloading his crossbow and followed the voice.

Stepping over the body of a fallen comrade and dodging around the burning remains of a caravan wagon, Decius saw the mage clearly. The Altmer was flinging bolts of lightning at the attacking rebels almost disdainfully A mighty sneer was pasted across his features. The spell-caster filled the legionnaire with hope. After all, the rebels had yet to field a mage of their own; perhaps they didn't have one. If that was the case, the Imperial forces might be able to turn the ambush around.

Then he saw the woman.

Much like the battlemage fighting on his side, the woman was a High Elf, though her hair was midnight black and her face smeared with war paint. The Altmer battle-mage was so wrapped up in his own dance of death he didn't seem to notice the approaching female until it was far too late.

Decius took aim with his crossbow, intent on putting a steel bolt through this rebel bitch's neck before she could strike the mage.

Unfortunately, he couldn't guess what kind of power the woman had at her disposal. Though he was too far away to plainly hear what was being said, the effect was obvious. One minute the mage was fine, the next he was encased in solid ice, shattering against the frozen ground as he fell. In that terrible moment Decius knew the cause was lost.

Turning to make a run for it, the Imperial realized his final error. Standing behind him, clad in the bearskin armor of a Stormcloak captain, was a warrior armed with twin axes. His face was splattered with blood, axes the same. It was do or die.

Raising his crossbow as fast as he could, Decius believed he could make the one shot that would save his life. He fervently believed it with all his heart. He knew this rebel dog would lay dying before him as he ran for the mountains.

He was wrong.

* * *

><p>After grinding the Imperial battle-mage underfoot like the insect he was, Lianna casually glanced around at the carnage surrounding her. The final cries of dying Imperials slowly blew away with the wind and smoke. The smell of burning wood and blood filled the air as Stormcloaks retrieved whatever they could from the Imperial caravan. So far an impressive tally of money, weapons and supplies had been recovered.<p>

"You know," Ralof commented casually, wiping the blood from his axes with a rag, as he approached her, "I doubt Galmar wanted us to burn the entire caravan." The tone of his voice suggested that he was only half jesting. As the elf looked around at the destruction, wondering how they would get all the newly acquired loot back to Windhelm, she couldn't help but agree.

"At least the casualty rate was low," she responded, sliding her orcish-made blade back into its sheath. "Could have been far worse."

Ralof smiled at his wife, the expression filling her with warmth. "You were right about that." Pulling the bear cowl off his head, the Nord let the cool breeze blow by, tossing his hair about. "I hope Galmar is as forgiving as you are." His gaze fell slightly down to the Imperial he'd decapitated mere moments ago. Now that the hectic battle had ended he could clearly see the young Legionnaire's features. He was only a boy, barely any hair on his chin. Wrapped around the remaining stump of his neck was an amulet of Mara, now stained with its owners blood.

Kneeling in the bloody snow next to the corpse, Ralof took the amulet in his hand. Brushing the gore and slush away with his thumb, the renegade asked his wife in a quiet, somber tone,"Am I a good man?"

The sudden shift in her husband's attitude entirely blindsided Lianna. Sure, he was a sensitive man most times and prone to occasional bouts of depression. However, the suddenness of his onrushing doubt took her by surprise.

Knelling beside Ralof, Lianna wrapped her arms around him. "You are the best man I've ever met, doing what he knows is right even though it's difficult. Don't ever forget that." Ralof held the amulet in his hand a little longer, staring intensely at it. "My da would have been so proud of you," the elf added, kissing the Stormcloak on his rough cheek, "As am I."

* * *

><p><em>Lianna poked her eggs cautiously with her fork. They didn't jump up at her, but they shifted a little, egg yolk wobbling. Tending the room's fire, the burly Nord woman Lianna knew as her mother turned back to give her 'the look.' "You need to eat those, young lady," she informed the six year old Altmer, "Your father is taking you out today and you can't go until you've finished breakfast."<em>

_The young elf didn't immediately answer, instead prodded the eggs some more. She knew they came from their chickens and she her mother had fried them over a fire, but still. They looked disgusting._

_A tromping of boots on stairs echoed throughout the small cottage. At this time it meant one thing; father was up, dressed and heading down the stairs. Turning her head, she saw the same sight she saw every morning at this time. Dressed in simple black and lightning-streak patterned robes, face immaculately clean-shaven, amulet of Talos proudly displayed over his breast, was Carver Wolfheart, her father. He was like and yet so unlike his precious wife Brianne. Where she was short and stocky, he was tall and lengthy. Where she was scarred from numerous battles, he was smooth-skinned, where she hurt people and battled the enemies of Skyrim, he healed the injured and tended the sick in Talos mighty name. While he had both eyes still sitting in his head, twinkling happily with harmless mischief, Brianne's left was milky white, matching an old war wound running down her cheek . Yet they both had brown hair, dark blue eyes and a profound love of their home and freedom._

_After kissing his burly wife warmly, the priest turned and set his eyes on his daughter. Picking her up, much to her delight, Carver sat her on his shoulder rubbing noses with his daughter. "You know what today is, right?" He asked between her giggles._

_Lianna nodded solemnly, "Ma goes to work as a guard in Whiterun so I go with you today?" She'd been giddy with excitement for days. An entire day with her da and her, watching him use magic and preform healings! Admittedly, she didn't actually know much of what her da did, but it would be exciting to find out!_

_Lianna knew Carver and Brianne weren't her 'real' parents, they'd never hidden that from her. She didn't know what had happened to her birth mother and father and what had prompted the two Nords to take in an elven child, despite the historic tension between the two races. These questions and thoughts were far beyond her level of reasoning. To her they were da and ma and that was enough._

_Brianne looked lovingly up at the greataxe hanging above the fireplace. Its handle worn from constant use, the head nicked and scratched. Like the woman who wielded it, the weapon had personality. It may not have been the prettiest or shiniest, but it was ready and dependable when it counted. Ma told her little girl that weapon had carried her through the war, the great war with the Thalmor that she rarely talked about. It was one of only three things she wanted to remain in her life after that conflict. Carver was second of the three._

_After putting his daughter back down, Carver took his own seat, reaching for a mug of cold mead and the morning's breakfast, namely porridge, several eggs, and a slab of bacon. After giving thanks, the priest dug into his food with abandon. "Have fun today," he told his wife through a mouthful of bacon, "Give everyone in town my warmest greetings." Finishing one egg, he skillfully moved on to the next. " Martin wishes it known that the Riverwood trader is still looking for additional exports if any of them care to make the journey up to the village."_

_Brianne rolled her eye at him, a smirk reserved for her family written on her features. "I'm going to be cracking skulls and stamping out crime today. Hardly fun, Carver." Now that Lianna seemed to be eating, the warrior woman had begun checking over the links in her chainmail, looking for weaknesses or rust of any kind. It always paid to be prepared; that's what ma said and what she lived by._

_"Stay safe now Carver," Brianne told her husband honestly, looking up from her work momentarily. "Try not to get yourself killed."_

_The Nord gave a great belly laugh. "Darling," he responded cheerfully, "I'm a priest. My job is far safer than yours."_

_"I'm serious Carver!" The woman responded exasperatedly, "You know what the Thalmor will do to you if they catch you!"_

_The priest smiled and stated confidently, "The Thalmor would never come after me in the heart of Skyrim. They wouldn't dare."_

* * *

><p>"And then he says, seriously, he says to me, 'I will eat your soul and possess your corpse!' And this whole time, he's flailing his arms around like one of those puppets the mummers use," Farkas started laughing, pounding the table furiously with one meaty hand while clutching a mug tightly with the other. Hammel was recounting his misadventure with Sild the Warlock, much to the bemusement of those listening.<p>

"I'll never understand mages!" Farkas chuckled, eyes damp with mirth, "If he'd just kept his mouth shut..."

"You'd be worse than dead," Vilkas cut in dryly. Though the words suggested hostility the tone did not. Hammel knew that was likely the highest level of friendship he could expect from the surly Nord; unless he did something truly impressive. Killing a lone mage wasn't that.

The ex-scout nodded. "That's true enough, but you know magic users. Their weakness is their desire for show."

Kodlak Whitemane raised his own foaming mug high, "A weakness Greymist was wise to exploit. The mark of a cunning warrior."

"My mother didn't raise a fool, Harbinger."

Skjor cracked a rare smile, "Evidently not."

"How'd you not hear him first?" Farkas asked, snatching a hunk of warm bread from its bowl in the table's center. "You've got good ears, or so Ria said after you went through those tombs a couple of days ago."

The former legionnaire shrugged. "I'd just stumbled upon the necromancer's workstation. A few cells full of bodies and rambling notes is enough to unsettle anyone. The whole castle gave off a disturbing feeling." The Nord stopped his ramblings and returned to the story. "Anyhow, this necromancer has the drop on me, I can't see him, I didn't even know he was there." The Companion looked down at his mead, "In hindsight, I was damn lucky." The thought about how close he'd been to death at the time, though funny as a re-telling, distressed him. "Bow out and ready, I'm looking around for this necromancer with the contract on him." The warrior took a long draft of mead, washing the grime and dust from his throat. Shaking his head, a smile back on his face, the Nord chuckled, "If Sild had kept his mouth shut I'd never have seen the lightning bolt fry me. Fortunately, like all mages it seems, Sild had to get a word in." The Nord smiled coldly. "He didn't get another."

"Well said!" Skjor hoisted his mug to that, a slight smile breaking across his scarred features. Like many Nords, he was distrustful of magic.

"Without hesitation, I launched an arrow right at the fool's neck. The look on his face, when it punched through his throat, was priceless." Hammel snorted. "Like he'd finally realized just how foolish it was to not simply melt me when he had the chance." Finishing his tankard, the warrior slammed it upside-down on the table before him. All the Companions present were seated in the great hall for lunch. Though many were scattered throughout the room's entirety, a few sat with Hammel as he recounted his latest Companion's contract.

"That's why I use good, old-fashion steel. Keeps me humble, and smart." Farkas pointed out, rubbing the handle of his greatsword protectively. The big man had simple tastes, and seemed to be of a simple mind. Still, even he wouldn't be foolish enough to take Sild's reckless and fatal risk.

"Normally, Ice-brains, I wouldn't put you and smart in the same sentence," Skjor told Farkas casually, "But compared to this fool, it seems a fair comparison."

Everyone laughed at that, Farkas baring the gentle insult with his usual good-graces.

At first, Hammel was surprised with the ease with which the big man brushed it off. But he eventually realized the others meant little by it. To them, it was their way of showing they cared. All in all, it was a very family feeling. Something the ex-scout had only experienced once before. So very long ago it seemed.

"But enough about me, what have the rest of you been up to?" Hammel asked warmly, toasting his new family.

"I killed a bear yesterday!" Ria blurted out proudly, a huge grin plastered across her face. "Aela only helped a little." The Imperial had been slightly more confident since that trip deep into the barrow at Bleak falls. With Quickfrost now seated at her waist, a prize Hammel insisted she claim, the young Imperial practically swaggered about Jorrvaskr. While the Nord didn't know exactly the young girl's situation, he knew she had something to prove. Claiming that sword was a step in the right direction.

"How big a bear?" Vilkas muttered, spearing another chunk of beef and throwing it onto the plate before him. His tone practically dripping with sarcasm.

"Bigger than the last one you bagged," Farkas responded quickly, coming to the young woman's defense. Ria smiled at the big man, tipping her mug towards him in thanks.

Hammel leaned back and closed his eyes. Around him the Companions bickered, bragged and celebrated. He felt a sense of security and warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.

Greymist had come home.

* * *

><p>Farengar was frustrated. Very, very frustrated. So frustrated it could almost be considered flustered. The court mage didn't much care for that particular feeling.<p>

Scrolls and dusty tomes covered Farengar's desk, some open, others still sealed. A half-full cup of tea remained rapidly cooling, long forgotten by the wizard. Not even his pipe seemed to help. The sweet aroma of burning tobacco filled the room as smoke drifted towards the ceiling. Yet despite all his meditations, his not un-impressive intellect, and the number of ancient volumes dedicated to the subject, he could not translate the Dragonstone. As a man not used to striking dead ends, he was taking it rather poorly.

Pipe clenched tightly in both hands, burning the fingers that gripped it so very tightly, Farengar brooded. The mage had no reason to feel as he did, but a sinking suspicion wouldn't leave him be. The more he struggled with deciphering the stone's message, the more he felt it was important. Something big was coming; something with world shaking consequences.

_How do I know that?_

Though it was just a hunch, the skinny Nord trusted his gut instinct. We wanted to be ready for whatever came. Whatever descended upon Skyrim and Whiterun.

Pity. He had no idea it would be descending so soon.

* * *

><p>"I noticed," Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions mentioned to the much younger Hammel Greymist in between swigs of mead, "that you didn't mention you father at all." The two Companions had continued talking throughout the afternoon. Though the others had moved on to various contracts or leisure activities, Hammel and Kodlak had remained behind, smoking, drinking and partaking in each others company.<p>

"I never knew him." The answer was blunt as a Dwemer warhammer, dropped with the practice of a man who'd answered the question many times before. "I know nothing of my father's line. He could have been a hero or a monster." Puffing a solitary smoke ring, the Nord looked down at the proud oaken table. "It doesn't matter."

Kodlak nodded sympathetically. In a culture with such significance placed on family lines and ancestral deeds, not knowing your history would be a great burden. "What of your mother?" the older man asked, in a surprisingly soft voice, "Does she have greatness in her family? There is no shame in following your mother's bloodline."

Hammel put his mug down and cupped both hands around his pipe thoughtfully. "If so, she never said anything." His mind started to wander back to that dingy room he lived in for the first twelve or so years of his life; the large, hairy older woman who'd bark at him to get out when his mother had to plaster that fake smile on for her clients; the Orc woman who sometimes worked at the brothel with his mother and was kind to him; the stink of unwashed bodies and sex that perforated the room after she was done, that unbreakable spirit she had, no matter what she was forced through, meeting her son with a real genuine smile.

The Harbinger nodded sagely, "So you are a man who will forge his own line, whose children and grandchildren will point to him as the paragon of the clan."

He snorted, coughing out a smoke cloud in the process. "For a man who hasn't had a woman in his life for years, that's awfully optimistic of you," he chuckled a bit, "And hasn't had a serious one in his life in…" the Nord scratched his goatee thoughtfully, letting the smoke drift from his pipe to the Mead Hall's ceiling. "...in ever, truth be told."

The Harbinger drained his mug casually, reaching an armored hand across the table for a refill. "That is the warrior's life. I've lived it myself," chuckling a little, Kodlak tapped his snow-covered chin. "Far longer than you have, I would guess." Taking up another mug of cool mead, the warrior leaned back in his chair, propping his chin on a closed fist.

"What about you?" Hammel asked Kodlak, taking a long draw on his pipe, puffing out a near-perfect smoke ring. "Do you have any family or children?"

A sadness welled up in the old man's eyes, but his facial features remained impassive. "No, not of my blood at least. As for family," he gestured around the mead hall, arm outstretched, showcasing Jorrvaskr's glory, "the Companions are my family now." Gripping Hammel by the shoulder, the elderly veteran smiled. "That includes you as well, young Greymist."

The Nord wasn't sure why, but something about the simple honesty in the older man's sentence stirred him. It was an emotion he couldn't put his finger on, but it felt good. It warmed him like a good stew, or praise given by his old Legion commander.

Hammel didn't know what the future and his time with the Companions would bring, but he anticipated the comradeship he was already beginning to feel. Though he'd come from a dark place, leaving some terrible memories and experiences behind, Skyrim had welcomed him with open arms.

The future looked bright indeed.

* * *

><p>His notes were put aside for now. Though the look over them had been fascinating and the information he'd gleaned about the Nords would come in handy, Clob had a personal mission. The old map he had managed to purchase from the Khajiit wanderers, currently camped outside Whiterun, smelled faintly of musk and dried whiskey. Judging by the creases and tattered edges, the old parchment had seen some use. How Ri'saad had gotten his paws on it would have been a fascinating, but unnecessary, story. What mattered to the mage was that he now possessed it.<p>

While his people were often thought of by others as crude and savage, they had many brilliant minds among them. Notably, cartographer, Davog gro-Grissom, who'd drawn and redrawn the map of Orsinium; modifying it after every war until the day he died. Though his apprentices had taken up the duties of keeping the Orsimer territory up to date, they'd abandoned the long-dead map-maker's passion, the Orcish strongholds of Skyrim.

With maps of those strongholds being extremely rare and all known copies carefully guarded, it had taken serious research to locate this copy and most of his coin to acquire it. But acquire it he had, and now his planning began in earnest. Yes, Clob had come north to study ancient lore, yes he'd come for additional training and improvement, but he'd chosen Skyrim for a very personal reason. A promise had been made, a vow was owed, and no son of Grogork would ever break his word.

The candles he'd lit hours ago had long burned low, wax dripping onto the table. His remaining tea retained none of its original warmth. These things didn't matter to Clob. He was engrossed in his work.

With this map he was another critical step closer to his end goal. Unfortunately, before he even rose to the ultimate challenge, there was still a mammoth sized obstacle in the way.

His final location was roughly halfway across the breadth of Skyrim, mostly through the wilds of the mountains and tundra. Clob didn't fear the hike, but he was no fool. Though he was a capable mage and well aware of his abilities, a lone magic-user, no matter how skilled, wouldn't last long in the wilderness. All it would take was one stray arrow, one stealthy wolf, and no amount of skill would save him. Traveling alone would kill him as certainly as slitting his own throat. He needed a traveling companion.

Stroking his beard casually, the Orc thought. He could hire some mercenaries. However, not only was he unsure of their character, but he hardly had the coin left to get particularly competent ones. He could write to the College of Winterhold and request the assistance of his fellow mages, but they had no reason to help him and most likely wouldn't.

What he really needed was a friend. Unfortunately, he didn't have many of those in this land. Tracing a green hand across the map before him, the Orc put those thoughts out of his mind for the moment. He needed supplies; water, jerky, and a warm blanket. He'd had those things upon arrival but the Imperials had confiscated them during his capture. He needed a horse, or another beast capable of transporting him across the open tundra.

Momentarily his mind flashed to the idea of riding large boars like the Orcish warriors of legend, but quickly discarded it. Not only was it a foolish notion, but he had yet to see any boars at all. He needed a horse, a proper Nordic horse.

Finally he needed to know what he would do when he reached his final destination. The Orc rubbed his temples at that thought. He needed a plan, he needed to know what he'd say, do, and more importantly how he'd react when he saw him again. He'd need to control his temper, keep his rage in check, and more importantly, he'd need to be persuasive. If he went about it wrong, he'd simply be one more corpse nailed to a wall, slowly drying in the wind.  
>Fatigue descending over him, Clob began rolling up his map. Retrieving the protective tube from his pack, the Orc took great care in storing the parchment. After securely fastening both ends in place, the Orsimer moved to return it to his pack.<p>

A sudden gust of wind blew through the open window to his room, snuffing the light out of his candles and chilling him to the bone. Moving over to the window, Clob closed and shuttered it. Something about that wind made him nervous, as if it carried darkness and suffering along with it.

The Orc hoped that Hulda built a warm fire and kept it going. It was going to be a long, cold night.

* * *

><p>Torgar Bear-son looked over the tower's parapet for perhaps the dozenth time. Something was out there in the darkness; he just knew it.<p>

"What in Oblivion are you doing man? It's cold out there!" Denven, one of the other guards stationed at the tower, shouted at him from his place at the fire. While it did blaze gloriously, tempting him back into its comforting embrace, Torgar knew he'd seen something in the distance. As a guard of Whiterun, it was his duty to protect the city. If the guards at the watchtower failed to see and combat this unknown menace, what chance did the city have?

The wind whipped by his head, chilling his face, despite the enclosed helmet he currently wore. The guard held one hand over the eye slits, shielding his gaze from the bitter wind. The incoming winter was already creeping into the air, dropping Skyrim's chilly temperatures even lower during the nights. He felt his breath crystallizing against the cold iron of his helm and saw his knuckles slowly turning blue. The cold didn't bother him; he'd lived in Skyrim all his life, as his father and grandfather had done.

He continued to scan the horizon for some time, looking as far as he could see into the darkness. Yet, despite his vigilance, nothing appeared to him. Shaking his head to clear his vision, Torgar turned back towards the fire and his brothers. He must have been imagining it. Even as the Nordic warrior put his hands by the roaring flame, he could swear he felt that same something's gaze upon his back. However, the burly guard shrugged it off. The others were right, there was nothing out there.

* * *

><p>From his perch out in the distance, keen eyes trained on the tasty little morsels strutting about their tiny tower, bold as brass, the creature watched. His reptilian eyes took in every detail of the mortal structure; counted the little flesh-sacks as they went about their duties.<p>

It would be all too simple for a creature of his power to remove this tiny obstacle, to consume its occupants. It would be enjoyable to shatter and destroy it, to burn it to the ground.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, the creature chased his desire for destruction away. The master had ordered him to watch and wait, until he gave the command. Soon the order would come, soon the destruction would begin.

Curling up like a rug, the creature watched, and waited.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm not quite sure what I think of this chapter. Several unconnected threads and back-story pieces that needed to happen but weren't intended to be together ended up being together. Oh well. Also, Dragonborn shouldn't slow my writing process, if anything, it should encourage me to write more. Thank you all for your continued support.<p> 


	12. Ill Omens

AN: Once again, thanks mom! Now, with that out of the way... onto the chapter!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

**Ill Omens**

"_Lo, when the sons of snow do battle amongst themselves and the children of Ysgramor suffer the curse of Glenmori, the world-eater's wrath will be turned toward mortals. Yet hope remains when the dragon's son strides forward, to do battle with his ancestor. If the son of dragons falls, all will perish."-Mysterious prophecy decoded from the Elder Scrolls. Decoding date, 3E 28. Creation date unknown._

Quintus Descimus was awoken by the rather unpleasant sound of a man being disemboweled outside his tent flap. At first he thought he'd imagined it, so rolled over in his cot, pulled Hector closer to his face, and tried to return to sleep. Then he heard another noise, a scream followed by the equally unpleasant sound of blood splattering against the piece of canvas making up his left wall.

Sighing heavily, the Prefect knew it was time to get involved. Tucking his stuffed elephant underneath the top blanket to ensure his safety, the Imperial murmured, "Still safe," to his little friend. There wasn't time to get into his battle armor, so Quintus belted his sword to his waist over his nightgown and snatched up his shield. Tossing his nightcap aside as he went, the Prefect barged out of his tent, sword in one hand, shield in the other, with only his sleepwear and underclothes for protection.

"Which of you motherless sons is responsible for an attack at this godless hour?" he bellowed, voice easily carrying over the camp. It took a moment for him to realize the nature of this attack. Several of his soldiers were engaged in combat with a variety of figures, each of whom was armed and equipped differently. Already, the ground was littered with bodies and a camp fire had spilled over, setting the dry grass ablaze. Several horses had broken away from their restraints, dashing madly about, whinnying with fear. Their supply wagons were being ransacked. Even as he took in the carnage, more of the enemy forces swarmed them like a horde of goblin looters. A few tents and bed rolls had been set alight by the flaming grass. The blazing fire set a sharp contrast to the darkness around him.

Realizing this was now a very dangerous position for his company to be in, Quintus raised his sword high above his head. "Form up on me! All men to me!" he howled in his best parade-ground shout, shattering the din around him. Unfortunately, one of the nearby enemies also heard the commander and decided to end his life prematurely.

The Khajiit was dressed head to toe in darkened leather, moving with the unnatural grace of his kind. Clutched tightly in each hand was a chakram, a weapon with which Quintus was vaguely familiar. If he could recall his lessons correctly, the metal discs were razor sharp and intended for throwing.

It seemed he was correct as, with a hiss, the enemy tossed both at him. Despite his soldier's reflex he was only able to block one. The first disk thudded against his shield, embedding itself harmlessly in the sturdy wood. The second slashed Quintus across the cheek, earning the already decorated veteran yet another scar. Even as the mysterious adversary reached back for two more of the damned blades, the Prefect was moving.

Dashing across the ground, bare feet slapping packed dirt, he led with his shield. The cat began to panic, hurling two more chakrams without much accuracy. One missed Quintus by several inches, while the other he batted away with his sword. Seeing the man get close enough for melee combat was enough to convince the Khajiit it was time for action.

Dropping into an offensive stance, claws extended, the cat man pounced. Against a lesser soldier this move would have been fatal. The dagger-like claws could open an Imperial's neck like a pig's before the soldier could strike. But Quintus Descimus hadn't earned the title of Prefect sitting at a desk.

Moving with reflexes honed by years of professional combat experience, the Imperial threw his shield up, bracing himself for the impact. The enemy slammed against it, numbing Quintus' entire arm up to the shoulder. The Khajiit rebounded with a yelp, slamming into the hardened ground with the grace of a drunken horker. Without bothering to look down, the Imperial stabbed the fallen cat, mortally wounding him.

Spinning around on his heel, Quintus saw something he'd rather not have. Charging straight at him, helmet-plume flying and saliva flowing, was an Orc. The big, green warrior was covered head to toe in Orcish steel; a brutal, heavy looking mace of the same material was clutched tightly in each hand. Both weapons had clearly seen recent use, each liberally coated with gore. The sight of the towering hulk of flesh and metal elicited a small response from Quintus.

"Oh dear."

The Orc was on him then, swinging both maces in a whirlwind of heavy steel and death. Dropping into total defense, the Imperial stood his ground. Using both sword and shield to parry, Quintus knew just how outclassed he was. Not only did the Orsimer easily have six inches and a hundred pounds on him, but his armor would provide far more protection than a nightshirt.

Jabbing up at the warrior's face, the Imperial tried to blind his adversary, hopefully allowing him to gain the upper hand. However the enemy was deceptively fast, smashing the blow aside with frightening speed. Parrying about, the Orc struck with his right mace, a blow Quintus only just dodged by hurling himself backward. Even with that gutsy move he was still scarred, the mace head tearing a bloody strip across his chest, staining the formerly pristine nightgown with blood.

Slashing upward, then changing to a downward blow mid-strike, the Prefect hoped to slip his blade between the Orcish chest-plate. Once again, his adversary showed his skill, dancing away from the strike and responding with a barrage of mace blows. His arm already numb, each block sent more unpleasant vibrations rocketing into the Imperial's shoulder. His breathing came out in ragged gasps, his chest sore with the scars of battle. His cheek continued to sting from the earlier encounter, dripping hot blood down his chin onto the ground below.

The whole time, in the back of his mind, one thought kept repeating itself. _Where are my men?_

There was no time to look around or re-shout his orders however; his entire focus was required to keep the lethal mountain of flesh and steel from causing his messy demise. The battle only seemed to make the Orc stronger; the greenskin bashing away with wild abandon. His arm had long since lost all feeling, his shield slowly falling to pieces and blade nearly useless. Every so often he struck with the sword, either striking the armor ineffectively or missing the enemy entirely. Quintus felt himself being driven backward, nearly stumbling over the body of the fallen Khajiit bandit. He prepared himself for Aetherius. Death would not be so bad, in fact, it might be sort of peaceful.

Then he heard it.

"All-Maker take your black soul!" The scream was louder than the chaos around them. It was rich and held an almost wind-like sound. The Orcish warrior spun instinctively towards it, the last thing he ever saw.

Storming towards them, steel greataxe held over head, heavy armor gleaming in the flickering light was Stragg Long-Runner. Quintus' second in command was a Skaal, thick as a door yet spry as a deer. Though he lacked a mustache, his beard was long and brown, blowing fiercely in the wind.

The combination of Stragg's strength, momentum and powerful weapon proved too much for the Orc. The blow cleaved the Orsimer's head clean from his shoulders, launching it across the camp.

"Prefect Descimus," Stragg greeted him, with the same intonation that other men would describe the weather with.

"Captain Long-Runner," the prefect responded with equal tone, "Who are these rotten fellows who have infested my camp?"

"Stormcloak mercenaries sir," the captain answered. "I've identified them as 'The Dogs of War.' Dispatching them should be a simple matter."

Quintus adjusted his nightgown, ignoring the massive stain on his chest. "Right, let's send them off then. I'm bleeding something awful and would like to patch myself up."

"Very good, sir."

* * *

><p>"Rabbit again? I'm sick of rabbit." Ravyn complained. The Dunmer had been a tower guard for several years now and never found a shortage of things to moan about. "We should send Torgar into town, Carlotta's bound to have baked some fresh bread this morning." The Dark Elf rubbed his stomach, punctuating the motion with a loud rumble.<p>

The other guards ignored him, save "Old" Brandorf, the guard who'd cooked the morning's breakfast. The old Nord may have been fat enough to stretch his orange armor, transforming the hold's symbol from a proud stallion into a barrel shaped pony, but he could swing a piece of steel with the best of them.

"Listen, you blasted elf!" Old Brandorf growled, shaking his ladle fiercely like a club, "You can eat my fist or my stew! Take your pick!"

The Dunmer scratched his helmet with an ash colored hand thoughtfully, as if pondering a deep philosophical quandary. "Hmm, that's a tricky one..."

"You gray-skinned bastard!" The fat guard bellowed, hurling his ladle like an axe at his elven antagonist. The Dunmer nimbly sidestepped the impromptu missile, chuckling slightly with a dry amusement.

This only made the older guard madder. Surging to his feet, panting like a horker, the man's pudgy hand dropped to his sword hilt. "I'd like to see you make lunch elf! I'd like to see you try!"

Holding his hands upward in a peaceful gesture, and speaking in a placating voice, Ravyn stated, "I'm only teasing, my friend. The safety of our stomachs rests easy in your capable hands."

Torgar didn't hear the rest of the exchange. His attention was focused once again on the surrounding country side. Something refused to let him rest. A warrior's instinct that told him something wasn't right. With the sun shining brightly over the planes and the western watch tower's elevated height, Torgar could see the surrounding area for miles. So far he hadn't seen anything, but that feeling simply wouldn't die.

Two of his brother guards were involved in a dice game, each routinely cursing and praising his luck. With Brandorf and Ravyn currently doing battle over the rabbit stew, that left only him and Hargon, the Sargent in charge of the tower, giving any semblance of observational efficiency. The tall northerner stood staring out over the terrain, bare knuckles whitening with the firmness of his grip around his shield. His head was bare, helm resting on the tower's edge, hair blowing with the wind. He sniffed the air casually, almost like a bloodhound trying to follow a scent.

"Something's not right."

The words fell from his lips and an almost ominous plop. They couldn't have been heavier if they'd been cast from solid iron. The man's eyes squinted, trying to focus in on something he couldn't quite see.

"What makes you so sure, sir?" Torgar asked, glad he wasn't the only one with the unshakable suspicion that all was not as it seemed. Once again, he cast a steady glance about the tundra. Once again, he saw nothing.

"Do you hear that?" Hargon asked, head titled slightly to better expose his ears. Following his Sergent's example, the other guard did likewise. Despite his best efforts, the younger man couldn't pick up anything,. There was an almost eery silence.

"I don't hear anything."

The guard Sargent nodded. "Exactly." He gestured across the open expanse with a rough hand. "Where are the birds? The deer? The mammoths? All silent." The warrior traced his mustache casually. "I guarantee it, lad. When the beasts are silent, something will strike. You just have to be ready for it."

The duo sat in silence for a moment, looking out over the hold's landscape. Save for the unusual silence, all was normal.

Torgar noticed it first. "The Giants are moving out in a hurry." His observation was correct. A number of giant tribes lived in the plains near the city. They were generally peaceful; in fact the relationship was even beneficial. The giants kept the worst beasts away, and the people of Whiterun let them rear their mammoths in peace.

Befitting a creature of such size and power, giants didn't move around much; anything that bothered them tended to end up much flatter than it had previously been. Giants didn't flee.

Yet it was happening before his eyes. The massive creatures were dashing away as fast as they could, the ground shaking with the fury of their feet. The previous silence was shattered as mammoths screeched in panic, rushing after their masters. Giant and beast were both loaded down with whatever goods the tribe could gather up. The group was clearly terrified, their speed accelerated as they fled farther from Whiterun.

"What in Talos' mighty name could spook a tribe of giants?" Torgar muttered, gazing at the sight before him with a sense of impending dread. He was certain nothing could cause such fear in a giant.

Then he saw it.

Saw, but couldn't believe. He'd heard the rumors of Helgen, of course. They all had. He'd been told the stories as a lad, by Oblivion. He could probably could quote them himself. Flying towards them, its raw power obvious, its magnificence terrifying, was a dragon. A flesh and blood dragon, a living dragon, a god among mortals, a horrifying mountain of flesh and teeth, flying almost lazily right for them.

All of a sudden the formerly gargantuan tower seemed very small, his heavy chain felt like feathers. A hand of icy fear gripped his heart as he felt warm liquid tinkle down his leg. "It can't be." He whispered under his breath, as the all too real dragon drew closer. He could see the sun glinting off it's scales, a magnificent green in color, and see its eyes narrow.

He didn't realize that fear had paralyzed him until Hargon grabbed his shoulder. "Did you hear me? I said run to the Jarl, inform him of our situation." He shoved him towards the stairs. "Go! Move!" he hollered, turning to face his other men.

Getting a grip on his emotions, at least marginally, the guardsman fastened his helmet securely in place as he ran down the stairs. Behind him, at the top of the tower, Sargent Hargon was shouting his small contingent of guards into order, ordering bows and arrows into action.

He was already halfway down the stairs when the dragon roared. The sound of it chilled him colder than Skyrim's air ever could, shaking the stones around him.

He'd shoved his way though the double doors, his boots slamming onto the tundra before the first blast of dragon fire washed over the tower's top, setting fire to its standard. He'd made it a dozen steps before the second blast knocked several stones lose, leaving the watchtower belching black smoke into the skies above him.

His lungs burned, his heart pounded in his chest, tears of terror chased their way down his grimy cheeks.

As he dashed towards the city of his birth as fast as he could, two thoughts occupied his terrified mind. _How is this real? And if it is, how do we stop it?_

* * *

><p>Ulfric Stormcloak didn't seem pleased with Galmar's suggestion. It was an intimidating expression, his brow furled, chin propped on a fist, cloak billowing around the throne. The future High-King's ire would have left most any man in a puddle of fear on the ground.<p>

Galmar Stone-Fist was not most men.

"Galmar," the Jarl rumbled, his voice almost disappointed. "I trust your council for most things, old friend. However this..." the words faded away as Ulfric searched for an appropriate phrase. "Foolish quest, is so unlike you. It is reckless and foolhardy, and I do not believe I can sanction this action. Particularly not with the use of my very best troops." At this point, the few remaining men left after the initial culling would have backed down, apologizing profusely for their foolishness.

Galmar Stone-Fist was not those few men.

"My Jarl," he began, his gravely voice containing a level of tact reserved for Ulfric alone. "I understand your views. However, I assure you, the Jagged Crown is very real, and what it implies will have a dynamic impact on this war."

"I don't need some ancient headpiece to convince the other Jarls to support me. My claim is legitimate. Furthermore, I do not want to risk the lives of my men to acquire a vanity item." He paused, gazing out a nearby window. "I will not throw away lives intrusted to me for nothing."

"The support of Lelia Law-Giver and Skald the Elder is a good start Ulfric," Galmar continued undeterred by the Jarl of Windhelm's continued refusal, "However, the loyalty of two Jarls is worth very little; you will need to sway others. Besides, others beyond Jarls need convincing, the people know the legend of the Crown. With it atop your head, many will have no choice but to prove their loyalty to the true king."

Ulfric pushed himself up from the stone throne with a slight sigh, his hard features set in a pondering look. Without speaking, the Jarl stroked his chin, pacing the room's length. Galmar knew what that expression meant; his friend was deep in thought. Without looking up from his fist, the Stormcloak asked, "What do you know?"

Clasping his hands behind his back and adjusting his posture, Galmar began. "According to our traditions, and records in the ancient verses, the last king to wear the Jagged Crown was Borgas, some centuries ago."

"I know of Borgas," Ulfric responded tersely. "I know of his defeat and his subsequent entombment. I know full well how he was buried with the Jagged Crown resting on his head." The Jarl of Windhelm finally turned to face his battle brother. "I'm also aware of what the tales say of Korvanjund Barrow."

Galmar waved a meaty hand, as if dismissing his leader's concerns. "The tales say Korvanjund was buried beneath the snow, vanishing from the surface of Skyrim. The king's final resting place was kept secret, preventing grave robberies and the like." The old Nord chuckled. "Then, all who knew the Barrow's location was killed in a bandit raid. Simply put, it was lost forever, along with all its treasures."

Ulfric ended his pacing, locking gazes with Galmar. "And the purpose of recounting this tale to me is?" The phrase hung menacingly in the air, leaving the other Stormcloak with a challenge.

Galmar smiled fiercely. "I found Korvanjund."

The leader of the rebellion stopped suddenly, his eyes widening ever so slightly. "What?"

The burly general simply radiated pride. "A team of my scouts stumbled across it while searching for Imperial forces north of Whiterun. One of them fell into a ditch, a ditch that turned out to be a staircase. A recon was done of the location and I've confirmed it with several of our scholars, this is the lost Barrow. Ulfric, all I need is your word."

The Jarl turned away sharply, his fur cloak billowing dramatically as his did so. Gazing out the stain-glass windows adoring his castle, the leader lost himself in thought. Respecting his friend's unspoken request for silence, Stone-Fist did not speak. The only sound heard was Galmar's fist clenching repeatedly.

"I want minimum casualties on this mission Galmar." The word's rumbled across the chamber. Ulfric's tone was heavy, "I want this crown, if it does exist, returned with as little blood on it as possible. Galmar, you will lead this expedition personally."

The Old Nord slammed his chest with a large fist. "It will be my absolute pleasure."

"One other thing," the Jarl mentioned, not turning his gaze from the stain-glass, "You may take the Helgen survivors. I pray to the Nine that this proves worthy."

"It will; that I promise." Galmar turned and walked away, he had his order, he had his force, and soon his Jarl would have the support he needed but was too proud to ask for. Being a Housecarl to a king was hard, but Galmar would have it no other way.

"Now," he murmured to himself as the palace doors shut behind him, "to find that worm Ralof."

* * *

><p>"The smoke rose, like a thing out of nowhere!" the Khajiit babbled on, gesturing with wide grandiose hand motions, "Ri'saad knew something must be happening, something the Jarl would want to know!" Balgruuf the Greater leaned farther back in his throne, gauging the cat's words with dispassion. It almost seemed as if he was actually considering the cat's outlandish tale. He had yet to make a statement, simply listening, eyes narrowing. His fur cloak was wrapped around his wiry frame, sword belted at the waist. Overall it looked like the Jarl was ready to go to war.<p>

This disgusted Proventus.

Eyes widened with panic, furry paws spread outright in a dramatic gesture, his tail twitching like a house cat's, a sure sign of unease. "The ground shook with fury, as fire blazed all around the tower, lighting it up like a beacon!" The merchant leaned backward, paws over eyes for dramatic effect. "Even from where this one was standing, it was nearly blinding," he continued on, babbling about the heat and smoke, making little sense but throwing words around haphazardly, hoping that their meaning would sink in.

Hrongar stood by his brother's side, burly arms crossed across his barrel chest, face shaped into something of a sneer, as if the Khajiit were a glob of slime he'd found under his boot heel. Unlike the seemingly at-ease Nord, Irileth stood straight as a razor, ash-colored fist wrapped tightly around her handle.

Proventus could not believe that everyone, save Hrongar, seemed to be taking this…thing seriously! _Set fire to the western watchtower indeed! What are the odds of something like that happening? Next to none! Are we to trust the word of beasts such as this? I'd think not! His kind aren't allowed into the city with very good reason!_

The steward rubbed his greasy hands together casually, trying to hold his tongue. He'd given no support to this concept of dragons returning, and he couldn't believe the others were! This cat shouldn't even be in the city, information or no. Yet he'd been allowed, without invitation, into Dragonsreach to speak with Jarl Balgruuf personally, an outrage!

What had he really seen? Nothing, most likely. Some guard's campfire, no doubt while under the influence of skooma, had morphed into a pillar of firing blazing away with imagined heat. Or, perhaps this was all a clever trick, allowing the merchant to take refuge inside the city long enough to loot several prominent establishments! His thoughts slowly became more irritated, stewing in his anger as the creature prattled on in its broken common. Yet no one in the castle bothered to speak up, to give any of the obvious answers he'd thought of. Instead, they sat complacent, giving credence to this thing as it voiced its inane theory.

Finally he could stomach it no longer.

"My Jarl," he began, in a sickeningly-sweet voice, "While this…man's testimony is indeed interesting, I must advise caution." The Imperial gestured at the trader with obvious contempt. "These folk are known users of skooma, and liars. This story could be the results of a delirious skooma-addled episode, or even an outright lie!" Straightening himself to his full, though admittedly not very impressive, height, Proventus fixed the most intimidating and demeaning sneer he could. "I would have to say, the word of a cat is about as useful as dung flavored mead, and half as valuable."

The Imperial was about to launch into yet another smear of this worthless creature, when the doors to Dragonsreach flew open dramatically. Staggering through them, as fast as he could, was a Whiterun guardsman. His helmet had long been abandoned showing a face covered in grim and sweat, hair messy from exertion. His tunic was torn and armor blacked, as if he'd taken a stroll through a very large furnace.

Bracing himself against one of the great hall's columns, the guard looked up at Balgruuf, terror evident in his eyes. "My Jarl," he gasped out, sucking in air in between words, "A dragon has attacked the Western Tower."

The sneer vanished from Proventus' features. A deadening silence filled the castle, falling over the crowd like a blanket. Everyone seemed frozen, unsure what to do.

Balgruuf pushed himself up from his throne, eyes grim, features set. The only sound made was the rustling of his fur cloak. Everyone's breath was baited, as if frozen in place. When the Jarl of Whiterun spoke his voice echoed to every corner of Dragonsreach. "Prepare for war."

Hrongar and Irileth bowed low, awaiting further instruction. "Brother," the Jarl turned to Hrongar, clasping the larger man on the shoulder, "Rally the guard and take to the walls, if the others fail, you will preserve the people." Spinning towards the Dunmer woman he continued, "Irileth, gather a contingent of our guard; get the finest archers you can. You will lead the assault on this monster and bring its head back with you."

The woman slammed an ashen fist into an open hand. "It will by my distinct pleasure, Jarl Balgruuf."

"Let's just think about this for one moment!" Proventus begged, clasping his hands tightly together, shaking them in an imploring gesture. "We don't know anything! We don't know..."

Balgruuf cut him off with a dismissive wave of a hand. "Silence!" Though his voice maintained the same volume, its tone became colder than winter in the Jerall mountains. "I will not stand idly by while my people are terrorized and killed! Not while something can yet be done!" He looked his steward dead in the eye, gaze unflinching. "I tell you this, Proventus, I would ride against a thousand dragons, sword in hand, to save anyone under my care, from the highest noble to the lowest beggar. Is that understood?"

The Imperial gulped, retreating tentatively away from the other man. The distraction now dealt with, the lord of Whiterun returned to the task at hand. "Make sure every man in the company has a bow," his instructions to the Dunmer continued without missing a beat, "Feel free to requisition as many arrows as you need from any smith in town; you have full authority." He paused, looking over his family and court, "From this moment on, until we know more, we are at war."

There was another pause as the Jarl stroked his beard. "One other thing. Round up that Greymist fellow, I have a suspicion he might be useful."

* * *

><p>Hammel groaned for perhaps the third time that day. "There's no way anyone can be so lucky!" Once again the dice had come up in Ria's favor. The young Imperial smirked, dragging her now growing pile of coins into her waiting arms with both hands. Farkas leaned back in his chair, mug in hand, looking rather nonplussed by Ria's continued victories. If anything, he seemed mildly pleased.<p>

Casually rolling the die between her fingers with all the grace of a trained con-artist and with a butter-smooth smile, she shrugged gracefully, "What can I say? The Nine love me!" She looked at him, giving his pitiful remnant of coin a sympathetic glace. "So, want to make some of that money back?"

Against his better judgment, Hammel found himself picking up the dice with a definitive, "Azura yes!" Shaking the dice ferociously within his close fist, the Nord felt the dice; was the dice; knew without a doubt, he'd win this throw. With a grin on his face, he tossed the hunks of carved bone onto the table top, watching them bounce around. Farkas watched nonchalantly, unperturbed no matter how the game ended.

The two players watched with baited breath, as the bones bounced. Unfortunately for the man, luck was not with him.

"Yes!" Ria crowed, pumping her fist triumphantly. Unable to articulate a good response, Hammel just grumbled, taking another draft on his pipe. Grudgingly, the Nord passed the remainder of his coin pile over to the young woman.

"Thank you very much for your contribution to my evening plans," Ria stated warmly, her tone seasoned with a hint of friendly mockery, "I'll eat well tonight with this!"

"Don't feel bad," The other Nord commented, draining his pewter mug in one powerful gulp, leaving a hint of foam on his face, "Ria beats everyone." He chuckled deeply, "It's no wonder she asked you to play. Everyone else is smart enough not to!"

Hammel couldn't help but smile at that comment, "Out foxed by the ice-brains," he mused, smoke drifting past him reflectively. "Someone needs to put this on the calender."

"This calls for another drink! That's what it needs!" the other Nord announced, practically leaping out of his chair and heading for the casks of mead.

As Ria began shoveling the small pile into her coin-purse, Hammel asked casually, "Who taught you to play?"

The Imperial smirked, her pretty nose crinkling with the expression, "You first, new guy." Her tone was light but her eyes suggested she wasn't kidding. In some ways, her attitude reminded him of diamonds, fragile looking, but solid on the inside. He admired that quite a bit, when he was honest.

Leaning back, pipe in hand, he began, "I played my fair share of chance games during my early youth, before the legion. I'd encountered several fellows of ill-repute during my time on the streets. Then after the legion picked me up, I perfected it playing with squad mates."

Ria's gaze softened, "You never mentioned you lived on the streets." The words were soft but not overly sympathetic, as if she was afraid of pitying him. Hammel didn't mind, he accepted pity from no one, offered or otherwise. "It wasn't all bad, all the time," he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "It was just terrible most of the time." He winced as some unpleasant Solitude evenings charged back at him in a mob. The cold, the hunger, the unpleasant characters who'd stab you just as soon as look at you; it was a wonder he'd survived it all.

"The captain said I put twenty pounds on in a week! Even with our strict training!" The Nord chuckled, "Old Naveev once said he'd never seen a recruit eat so much, so fast," he laughed, a deep belly laugh, smoke leaking from his mouth. "The food was, of course, terrible."

Ria snorted at that, giving a much more feminine giggle. "I suppose it's my turn to squawk." Adjusting her chair slightly, the petite Imperial helped herself to a bottle of warm mead. "My father knew all about various card and dice games." Her gaze shifted downward timidly. "Knew, but wasn't very good at them," she sighed, pushing back from the table. "Anyway, he taught me when he was a Companion and I was very young. I remember, he had the fuzziest beard and the warmest smile." She became very quiet suddenly, chewing at her lip. "It's one of my favorite memories of him."

Knowing he wasn't going to get any more information out of her than that and sensing it was a sore subject, Hammel moved on. "If you're going to eat out tonight, head to the Bannered Mare and order the goose. It's fantastic." He held up his fingers dramatically and made a lip-smacking noise, "Absolutely fantastic!"

Before the Imperial could give an appropriately snide reply, the door to Jorrvaskr flew open with a dramatic bang. Instantly, hands went to sword handles across the room. The intruder however was no brigand or assassin. To everyone's surprise, a rather harried member of the Whiterun city guard was their intruder. Leaning heavily on the doorway and breathing deeply, he spoke, "I've been told to find the Companion called Greymist. Is he present?" His words came stumbling out in between breaths as he gasped air into empty lungs, his expression hidden behind his helmet. Hammel couldn't know for sure, but the guard's posture suggested he was in agony.

Standing up from the table, stance defensive, resting on the balls of his feet, Hammel looked at the guard. "Yes he is, I am he."

"The Jarl has requested your assistance Companion, a dragon has attacked the Western watch-tower."

In that moment everything changed. Reaching back across the gambling table, Hammel snatched his iron helm off it, strapping it to his head. He was moving towards his bow as the guard continued, "Also, the cats outside are practically begging for protection. The city can't afford to send it so they've turned to you. Their leader, Ri'saad I think his name was, claims to have coin."

Farkas waved at Ria, ushering her into the central chamber. "Tell Kodlak we have an honorable and time sensitive task before us. He'll know who to send." Ria bowed low before dashing back towards Kodlak's chambers. Already, the others in the main chamber were stirring, the sound of dragon having motivated most to action.

Yet none were more motivated than Hammel.

His bow strapped to his back and both swords on his waist, the Companion was already heading towards the guard. "Where are we headed?" he asked forcefully, tightening his helm's chin strap. The guard was already leaving Jorrvaskr as he asked.

Moving at a quick jog, hand on sword hilt as the streets of Whiterun opened up before them, the guard responded, "Irileth is gathering a strike force of guardsmen to retake the watchtower and drive off this monster, whatever it is."

"Why add me?" The Nord asked as he dodged several citizens moving aside for the advancing duo. Already the crowds were gathering. Rumors of the dragon attack were spreading like wildfire. Some fled to their houses, barring doors and windows, others headed for the ramparts, gazing out over the fields towards the watch-tower, hoping to get a glimpse of the monster. Despite the bustle and fear there was a tiny minority who were going about their daily tasks as if nothing had changed. Hammel found himself admiring their quiet courage.

"Why add me?" the guard repeated sounding flabbergasted, though with his face hidden, truly discerning his mood was difficult. "I thought it was obvious!" They continued on for a few moments before he explained, "You're the only one with any experience combating these monsters that the Jarl trusts, a son of snows."

The Nord gave a dark chuckle, "Combat them? I ran for my life; it seemed the sanest course of action."

_And yet here I am, rushing headlong to fight one in defense of my new home. I must be crazy._

The other guard shuddered unintentionally. "Even so," he responded, Nordic accent coming in thick, "you're the best we've got." The pair continued on, moving past the gawkers and the vendors, noticing the almost eerie quiet that had settled over Whiterun. It was a fine afternoon, the sun shining high in the sky above them, a slight breeze rustling the grass; yet no animals could be heard, no birds chirped, as if they too had fled the area.

Gathered before the mighty city gates was a rag-tag group of Whiterun guardsman. Those whose faces were visible, looked nervous, understandably so; even those with full helmets radiated an aura of fear. Danica Pure-Spring, local priestess of Kynareth, stood before the small group of guardsmen, arms outstretched beseeching the goddess of winds and nature for protection. In a similar vein, a smaller group of guardsmen knelt before Heimskr, as the priest prayed for mighty Talos to aid his sons on the field against their foe. Those who weren't praying adjusted straps on armor, tested bowstrings and ran whetstones over blades one last time.

Standing proudly on top of the wooden plateau stretching across the gate was Irileth. A light but powerful looking crossbow was strapped to her back; a steel blade, nearly as jagged and sharp as the owner, rested in her hand, sunlight reflected off the old blade magnificently in the mid-day sun. Her armor looked freshly washed, the leather strapped down tightly. A helmet of boiled leather rested gently in her off hand. It looked like many others of its make, save for a plume of brilliant orange distinguishing it as a commanders helm. The Dark Elf's flinty eyes squinted over the twenty-odd guardsmen gathered before her, assessing each man's worth and strength. Despite the chanting of priests, the low murmurs of prayer and the rasping of steel on stone, her first words were carried to each ear perfectly. Her tone was both quiet enough to draw the man in and loud enough to be heard.

"Soldiers of Whiterun," she began, looking down from her post in a neutral stance, "this is a day of glory." Heimskr and Danica ceased their prayers, listening as intently to the Dunmer as the orange-clad guardsmen. A gust of wind blew Irileth's hair, throwing it back dramatically. "This is the hour where you rise up and defend your home! Where you prove that sons of snow will never be conquered!"

Pointing her sword fiercely in the direction of the watchtower, the dark elf shouted, "A dragon has attacked us! A real, breathing dragon has assaulted the western watchtower, the first dragon seen in Whiterun in thousands of years!" She paused dramatically, "It falls to us to be more than mortals, to be heroes! Dragon slayers!"

"If this really is a dragon," one of the guardsmen shouted back, "We should be running for the hills! You heard about Helgan!"

"Damn straight!" another howled, "What chance do we have? It killed everything in its path!"

"My da always said a dragon can't be killed! We'll die in agony!"

The guards began murmuring; the few who'd spoken had the ear of the crowd, the heart of the matter. A physical tide of fear was felt sweeping through the mass, as panic, speculation and old-wives tales began bubbling to the surface.

"I assure you men," Irileth's voice cut through every argument, like a hot knife through a cheese wheel, "that these monsters can be slain! A feat, not preformed since the days of legend! Men, we will join the heroes of legend! Killers of dragons!" The guardsmen stood, almost paralyzed in her presence. The Dark Elf seemed to have struck a chord within each of them. Hammel felt his blood begin to stir as her words resonated deep within his soul.

"Look at this city men! Look at your home!" She gestured over Whiterun with an ash-skinned hand. "If you give up now, if you falter, this city will burn. Your families, your women, your friends, will die screaming!" She paused dramatically, letting those words hang in the air. "Men of Whiterun, will you let that happen?"

Twenty odd fists and voices were raised together. "No!"

"Will you allow another hold to claim our honors?"  
>"No!"<p>

"Will you stand with me and show this dragon that Nords do not back down and fear nothing?"

Hammel found himself screaming alongside the mob, hands held high the answer. "Yes!"

Sensing now was a good moment to join in and provide some motivation; Heimskr threw his voice into the fray. "And if you fall this day, know that you enter Sovengarde, head held high and pride in your breast as you take your place at the feast with Ysgramor. For you faced the enemy with pride and honor. Talos is with you!"

Stamping her foot on the gate controls, Irileth threw Whiterun's gates wide open. "Men of Whiterun, follow me!" Leaping down from her perch, elven grace evident as she landed, the Dunmer slammed her helmet on, wind catching the plume magnificently. "For honor, for glory, advance!" And with that final word, the housecarl led the charge out of the city, towards their fate.

Hammel followed the guards gladly, bow already in hand. Little did the Nord realize that next hour would shape every hour of his life to come and change the face of Tamriel, forever.

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><p>AN: This story has cracked sixty favs and almost hit one hundred alerts! Thank you all for your continued support! It means a great deal! And yes, dragon fights next chapter, I promise. Hang onto your sweet-rolls people!<p> 


	13. Dark Wings

AN: This chapter made me nervous. Glad to get that off m chest. I spent a long time on this one, trying desperately to get the first dragon battle done properly. I hope I did it justice.

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><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

**Dark Wings**

"_Dark wings on the horizon herald doom! Dark Wings on the horizon herald death! Do not stand before them! Flee and you might survive. Fight and you surely perish."- Writing recovered from a letter between unknown parties, rough age estimate, Merethic Era. Extreme age prevents accurate dating._

_The rain hammered down from the darkened skies above, thunder rolling across the air like the rumble of a dragon's belly. Already, Hammel was soaked through to the bone, and almost deafened by the constant drumming of rain upon his steel helmet. His standard Imperial Legion issue leather proved useless in keeping him dry, his skin slowly turning a dull blue._

_The other recruits standing in line were fairing no better than the young Nord, save Tavin-Leem, an Argonian, who seemed almost pleased. The potential legionnaires stood steadfast in the Castle Dour courtyard, arms clasped behind their backs, motionless despite the lashing rain. Next to him, a young Redguard sneezed yet made no other movements._

_Striding back and forth before the column, moving with ease despite the weather and peg leg, was drill sergeant Vokniss. The old Nord bore more resemblance to a slab of beef than a person, eyes always squinting behind his wrinkled brow, meaty hands more than capable of beating an Orc to death despite their advanced years. His peg made an impressive thud with each stride and his voice cut through the rain, thunder and lightning like they were nothing at all._

"_You are here," Vokniss began, voice rumbling low, "because you've shown potential, and because you've got guts." His hawk-like gaze passed over each cadet in turn, glaring right at them. "You've all made it this far because you think you can be Legion material and you've clung to that belief. I admire that." The sergeant spat a wad of phlegm on the ground, his white wispy hair blowing about in the wind. "However, most of you won't make it." _

_He paused a moment, letting his words sink in, penetrating every hopeful's spirit. "This is the Imperial Legion! And we accept only the best! And right now I don't see a whole lot of best in this mob!" The breath rose from his nostrils in clouds, clearly visible in the cool air. "These weeks will be grueling, brutal. Some of you will quit, many more of you will try your hardest and still fail. Despite these odds, a few of you will make the cut; a few of you will be transformed into soldiers, into warriors. Ask yourself now,' is that me?' Better yet, say to yourself, 'It is me.'"_

_Vokniss quit his pacing to look one of the recruits, a young Orc girl, square in the face. "Why are you here, recruit?"_

_The Orsimer gulped, "Sir, because I wasn't about to be married off, sir!"_

_The old Nord snorted, "You think you've got what it takes to be a legionnaire, greenskin? What good are you?" The question was hurled at the Orsimer unexpectedly, clearly catching her off-guard._

"_I'm strong sir," she replied, " I've killed my share of beasts."_

_Vokniss didn't seem impressed. "Is that so?" Those words dripped from his mouth with impressive venom. He didn't pose any more questions to the girl, instead stomping down the line looking for another recruit to test._

_Hammel couldn't hear the questions the drill master fired Tavin-Leem's way, but the Argonian didn't seem pleased, his tail shaking furiously after the conversation. In a similar manner, two other potentials were grilled and subsequently ripped to shreds by the sergeant, his words booming across the courtyard louder than any thunder crack._

_The young Nord became aware he was under scrutiny when Vokniss halted, peg in a puddle of rain water, directly in front of him. Hammel was slightly above six feet, his wiry frame packed with muscle, but the older Nord seemed to tower over him. "Tell me son," he asked, voice rich with disdain, "Why are you here?"_

_Fighting back a sense of fear that rose from nowhere, Hammel responded, "To make something of myself, sir."_

_Vokniss paused, looking at Hammel more closely, "I know you; you're that bastard kid Naveev picked off the street. He saw something in you." The grizzled veteran looked him up and down, taking in every inch. "You're scrawny for a fellow of your height and you look weak." Jaw set, he looked at Hammel and issued him the same challenge. "So tell me, bastard, what can you do?"_

_"I can run, sir."_

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><p>Running across Skyrim's tundra, easily keeping pace with the guards of Whiterun, Hammel felt his old scouting memories coming back. Bow already in hand, eyes scanning the surrounding wilderness for any signs of trouble, the Nord felt oddly at peace. It was something he was good at, something he trained for and focusing on the job kept him from thinking about the coming massacre.<p>

While there had yet to be any obvious signs of a dragon, one thing was abundantly clear. Ri'saad hadn't been kidding about the watchtower. A thick dark cloud of smoke slowly billowed across the tundra; already the smell of ash and charred stone filled their nostrils. His ears were trained against the wind, filtering out the old war songs the guardsmen sang and listening for the sound of beating wings. Thankfully, there were none.

In the distance, the tower slowly came into view. What could be seen was far from inspiring. The structure still stood, barely, despite obvious damage. The top half had fallen away, leaving the tower more akin to a broken bottle than a sturdy defensive structure. Around the tower's base the ground was littered with fallen stones and wood, most grass either burned away or was currently ablaze. The stone structure was noticeably lacking in flags, wooden rails and everything else such a structure should posses. A few flames licked the tower's side, hot enough to continue burning against stone. What wasn't crumbled or burning was charred black, giving Whiterun's western watch-tower an ominous appearance. Though it was too far away to make out any corpses, the lack of activity led Hammel to conclude that there would be plenty. There was nothing in sight, no guards, no dragon, not even a bird.

Irileth, leading from the front, had spotted the tower long before him. Holding her fist up, she signaled for both silence and halt. The men stopped, letting their battle songs die. With another wave of her hand, the Dunmer motioned for Hammel to join her at the front. Without making a sound, the former scout moved toward the housecarl, surveying the ruined structure.

"Whatever hit the tower was massive," she commented, shielding her elven eyes with an ash-skinned hand. "But I don't see any dragons."

"It doesn't mean there isn't one," the Nord responded calmly, trying not to dwell on the implications of his words.

"You're not wrong," she responded, without much enthusiasm. The Dunmer scanned the horizon a moment longer, looking around for anything suspicious. "Regardless, we need to move in. We won't know what happened here unless we locate any survivors."

Hammel nodded, gloves scrunching up as his fingers tightened around his bow. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing straight up, as if trying to flee his body. Sweat started working its way down his face, despite the crispness of the day.

Turning about to face the guards, Irileth spoke decisively without an ounce of fear. "Alright men, the tower looks deserted. We move in, quickly and quietly, to secure it and find anyone still breathing. Questions?"

There were none. Without another word, the Dunmer waved the band forward. In the span of moments their tone had shifted. No longer were they boisterously singing and chanting, standing proudly. Each man was hunched low, moving as silently as a field mouse, dashing from brush to brush in an attempt at concealment. Unfortunately, the tundra was not rich in possible hiding spots, with very little cover for the twenty odd men. Even worse, and something that Hammel was painfully aware of, it provide literally no protection from an aerial view. If a dragon flew overhead, it would easily see them without the slightest effort.

The tower ahead was still quiet as they drew closer. However, something became noticeable; bodies. Some thirty feet away from the tower's base lay the remains of a guardsman. His corpse was charred beyond recognition and his limbs were splayed out at every angle. A small crater had formed around the fallen warrior, obviously dropped from a great height. Several other bodies were also visible, each burned, broken or with various pieces missing. Nothing was moving.

"Damn monster," a guard behind Hammel growled, "It's just like the tales."

"If that's so," another stammered, "we can't fight it. It'll rip us to shreds like it did these poor sods."

"Quiet!' Irileth snapped her voice sharper than a razor's edge. "We'll move in and have a closer look. There's bound to be someone still alive in there. Move forward."

As the guards moved closer to the tower, crouch-walking as before, they made next to no sound. Each man's breath was held, each weapon was drawn. It was an eerie silence; the kind Hammel had experienced only a handful of times in his life, none of them pleasant.

Knuckles whitening with fear, the ex-legionary and guards drew ever closer to the tower. It grew larger, its crumbled features glaring down at the band like an angry father, ready with his fist. Nimbly, he sidestepped fallen rubble and charred bodies, moving towards the tower's entrance without a sound. The wooden double doors leading into the structure had been burned away, leaving only an empty portal, covered in ash and charred wood chips. It was quiet, save the rustle of the wind and the heavy breathing of the man behind him.

That quiet was shattered in an instant.

Dashing from safe embrace, flailing his arms wildly in a "stop" motion was a Whiterun guardsman. His helmet was missing, face horrifically burned, his uniform in tatters, the still remaining pieces charred almost entirely black. Blood rain down his arms, caused by a vicious gash near his elbow. The left side of his face had suffered most, burnt beyond recognition; most of his hair had been incinerated and his left eye had swollen shut with burn wounds. "What are you doing?" he howled. "Get to cover!" He glanced around wildly, as if terrified a creature as massive as a dragon could materialize from any shadow. "Brandorf tried to make a run for it," the panic in the survivor's one working eye was obvious, clearly he was on the verge of bursting into tears. "He was snatched up before he made it a hundred yards."

Suddenly, an earth-shaking roar split the air around them, shaking the very earth beneath their feet. The survivor's head snapped in the direction of the sound and he immediately urinated with fear. "Kynareth preserve us! It comes again!" The guard pulled an amulet of the wind goddess from around his neck, holding it before him in a filthy hand.

Everyone turned in the direction the battered man had, and all felt icy fear grip their heart with the strength of a giant. Flying lazily towards them, the setting sunlight glistening off its dark scales was, indeed, a dragon.

The only one who seemed unimpressed with the monster's appearance was Irileth. "Alright men, you have bows, what are you waiting for? Use them!" Her order cut through the haze of fear that had enveloped the guardsmen's minds and each responded with varying degrees of speed. Bows were drawn, arrows notched and strings pulled tight. Still the dragon flew on, unimpressed with the raggedy band of soldiers standing before him.

"Wait for my order," the Dunmer commanded, her hand held high. Despite his pounding heart, the Nord listened, holding his shot along with the others. The dragon soared closer still, letting loose another heart stopping roar. "Steady," Irileth commanded, hand still held high. "Steady lads." The men with open faced helmets all bore looks of terror, skin white with fear.

Images flashed through his mind; the fires of Helgen, the screams of the dying and the roar of the dragon. It was too late to run, all that could be done was to pray and to hope his arrow flew true.

The dragon was close now, no longer a speck on the horizon, instead nearly filling the sky and blocking out the sun. Its reptilian eyes gleamed with a vile hatred and desire to destroy. If the dragon got any closer, Hammel would be able to smell its breath.

Fortunately, Irileth didn't wait long enough to inspect the dragon's dental hygiene. "Loose!" she ordered sharply, dropping her hand. With admirable precision, the guards fired sending their arrows sailing towards the beast. Unfortunately, the results were less than spectacular. The dragon didn't bother slowing and shrugged off most of the arrows like a man would raindrops. A few of them managed to punch tiny holes in the wing membranes, but most simply bounced off the dragon's armored hide. The beast let out another bone-chilling howl and opened its maw wide.

Irileth yanked the light crossbow from her back, snapping off a defiant bolt before ordering, "Everyone find cover!"

Having already encountered a dragon once, Hammel knew what was coming. Flinging himself behind the nearest piece of rubble he could find, the Nord hunkered down, pushing himself as far beneath the stone as he could. He avoided the cone of fire by mere moments.

The dragon's flame struck the guardsmen like the fist of an angry god. One soldier was incinerated almost instantly, barley having time to scream as his body turned to ash in a moment. Two others were horrifically burned, being caught too close to the blast. Both fell back, tunics aflame and helmets melting, howling in agony. The grass all around them caught fire, blazing away brightly, creating brilliant contrast with the dusky sky. The heat was immense despite the stone between him and the flame; the Nord felt like he was standing in a blast oven. Enormous drops of sweat rolled off his face.

Even with the line crumbling around her and a dragon roaring overhead, Irileth maintained her composure. "Fire whenever you can!" She barked, reloading her crossbow precisely. "We need to bring this thing down!"

Ignoring the screaming of the dying men and pain in his body, the Nord readied another shot before standing straight. Pulling the bowstring back to his ear, Hammel took careful aim before loosing the shaft at the monster overhead. The iron-tipped weapon struck the dragon in its enormous flank, finding a chink in its scaly hide and sinking deep. If the dragon noticed the arrow it certainly didn't show it.

Swooping down, faster than any thought possible, hind legs extended, the dragon dived low. One of the guardsmen saw it coming but was unable to do anything about it. The monster snatched up the unfortunate man in its giant talons and flew away with its prize. Another ragged volley of arrows did little to dissuade the reptilian beast. With an almost contemptuous growl, the dragon dropped its victim. The man fell, howling all the way before slamming against the ground. His impact was punctuated with a sickening crunch as his bones shattered.

The guards threw more arrows into the air, trying desperately to harm the dragon; to do anything. Hammel fired again, this time striking the beast in the left wing. His shaft punched a hole clean through the membrane, rewarding him with a small splattering of blood. A trio of guardsmen standing next to him followed his example, also aiming their shots for the left wing. Two of the three arrows struck true, slashing the tender membrane.

Those blows the dragon seemed to feel, roaring against the darkening sky, before blasting the ground with another wave of fire. Flying with perfect control and breakneck speed, the dragon sailed away from the arrows, taking itself momentarily out of sight behind the tower. Hammel looked about furiously, trying to catch a glimpse of the legendary monster.

With a cry that shook the remaining stones of the tower, the dragon burst from around the structure, shooting another cone of fire at the battered warriors. Another three men were caught in the blaze, burning away and dying. Hammel was just at the edge of the flaming cone, fire licking up his right side.

The pain was immense, scalding his skin and blackening his leather. The Nord shrieked, dropped his bow and fell to the ground. Flames licked up the chest piece and worked toward his helmet. The former scout rolled back and forth in the grass, ignoring the roar of the dragon and the screams of dying men in his panic to smother the flames before they consumed him. Out of the corner of his eye, the flailing Nord caught a glimpse of Irileth standing defiantly, pumping another crossbow bolt into the beast's underbelly, plume long since torn from her helm.

He was face down in the dirt, trying desperately to shake the flames away, when a guardsman screamed, "Talos save us! The beast is landing!"

With the mighty roar, hind legs outstretched and the monster landed. One of the guardsmen was unfortunate enough to be caught underneath, the dragon's mighty foot which squashed his body like a grape. Launching its neck like a great whip, the dragon snatched a second guardsman up, swallowing him whole in a single gulp.

Rising shakily to his feet, the Nord glanced around furiously for his bow; to his horror the ex-scout's eyes fell upon charred remains. His short bow had been caught in the same blast that had roasted him; Hammel had been too busy saving himself from the flames to notice his weapon going up like a funeral pyre until it was too late. All the remained were his swords.

Irileth yanked her own longsword free, pointing the iron blade at the dragon, howling at the top of her lungs to engage the beast up close. The order seemed suicidal but the men followed it. They'd been unable to really harm the dragon and with it landing the possibility to do real damage was there before them. Swords, hatchets and greataxes were drawn as warriors screamed, rushing the dragon en mass like a horde of army ants.

If the great beast was impressed by this display of reckless courage, it didn't show it. Another blast of fire struck down the soldiers not fast enough to dodge. With a swipe of its mighty arm, the dragon scattered the front line of warriors, throwing men aside contemptuously. Yet still more came. A guardsman swung his greataxe with all his might, burying the iron head deep in the dragon's leg. Another gripped his sword with both hands and stabbed viciously between two large scales. Irileth struck with the force of an enraged bear, blade carving a gash in the beast's leg, dancing down the narrow strip of flesh between scales.

Knowing he couldn't stand idly by while the guardsmen went toe to toe with the mythological monster, Hammel drew both swords, whispered a hurried prayer to both Talos and Azura and dashed towards the dragon.

The situation was oddly surreal. He was rushing towards a creature whose kind had once enslaved Tamriel, a beast that had reduced the mighty western watch-tower to smoking rubble. A beast the tattered remains of the guard unit was desperately battling. It would likely kill them all in the next few moments. His heart felt no fear, his hands were firm, and his will was iron. Whispering his vengeance to the darkening sky, Hammel dashed for the dragon's rear.

Knowing the creature expected an attack on his legs and wings where the guards were striking, the Nord did the unexpected. The dragon's massive cedar-like tail hung low to the ground, unapproachable to the others. However, the creature hadn't seemed to notice the Nord. Rushing in behind the massive monster, both blades in hand, head ducked, he made a straight run for the tail.

Azura must have been watching over him, because he reached the appendage unmolested. With a cry, "For Skyrim!" he sunk both blades up to their handles in the dragon's flesh. The beast howled, sharp pain shooting upward through its sensitive tail. Striking back with the force of a giant's club, the dragon smashed its injured limb into the Nord.

Hammel was launched backward, leaving both blades in the dragon's tail before slamming painfully into the hard packed ground. He felt the air rushing away all at once, felt his body wracked with pain and saw stars floating before his eyes. Gasping air into battered lungs, the Nord forced himself to his elbows, glancing towards the battle.

Guardsmen were swarming over the dragon's legs and wings like ants, hacking away with their weapons to mixed effect. Blood dripped down the monster, splattering against both man and ground. Bodies, many mangled or charred, littered the area but the survivors pressed determinedly on.

However, it seemed the dragon had enough of ground combat and with a might roar took to the skies again. Its powerful wings beat back the mob of guards with the force of a hurricane before the monster took off, leaving yet another corpse in its wake.

"Bows men!" The Dunmer ordered, still alive much to Hammel's surprise. "We must bring the beast down again!"

The Nord's gaze fell upon the Kiss, his Dwemer dagger still belted to the underside of his arm. With both swords gone and bow destroyed, it was now his lone remaining weapon. Unfortunately for him, the dagger was mostly useless in such a battle.

Then a thought struck him. It was something so insane that if the Daedric prince Sheogorath had appeared right at that moment and personally suggested it to him, Hammel wouldn't have been the least bit surprised. However, it was just mad enough to possibly work.

Drawing the Kiss with one hand and yanking his iron helm off his head with the other, Hammel shouted, "Irileth, drive the dragon towards the tower! I've got an idea!"

Without a trace of hesitation, the Dunmer shouted, "You heard him! Come on, send up a volley." As guards scrambled about the field to get their hands on bows, Hammel moved for the tower as fast as he could, Kiss in hand, trying not to think of the sheer stupidity of this course of action.

By the time he'd reached the stone steps leading up to the tower's door, roughly six men had found bows and had begun firing arrows haphazardly towards the flying monster. He'd entered through the damaged archway before another two guards joined in the volley. Hoping it would be enough to ensure his plan's success, Hammel took to the stairs.

Even with the tower in its current state, the stairs mostly remained. A few had utterly crumbled away or were buried completely beneath fallen masonry, yet these proved no challenge for the Nord. He pounded upward, leaping fallen steps, his heart pounding in his chest, sweat trickling down his bare neck. He thundered onward. The sounds of combat in his ear punctured with a mighty roar as the dragon called its vengeance down on the irritating little men who had wounded it. He ran on, motions automatic, his mind long since quieted, his whole being focused on getting to the peak of the watchtower.

Bursting out from the staircase and unto the peak, Hammel was greeted with a magnificent view. From the watchtower's observation platform, the city of Whiterun sprawled out before him, the sun a blazing orange ball sinking away in the west, stars beginning to fill the sky. The surviving men below him were giving it their all, fighting against overwhelming odds and standing proud. The dragon was rushing towards them, hugging close to the watch tower as Hammel had hopped. It seemed the infantry volley had done its job admirably.

He waited until he could see the evil glint in the monster's eye, he waited until the creature's wingtip just brushed the stone of the tower; he waited until the moment felt right. He took one last deep breath, cursed himself and leaped.

It was a funny feeling, falling freely, knowing failure meant death, even if he succeeded he'd likely die. The fatalism was oddly liberating. He couldn't get a good look at the guard's faces, but he imaged they looked baffled. The wind whistled in his hair and over his skin, the remaining sunlight gleamed off the dragon's armored hide.

His jump was both a success and a failure. On one hand, he actually managed to land, slamming against armored dragon hide. On the other, he miscalculated his timing slightly. While he landed on the dragon, his right leg stuck out too far and was impaled on one of the razor sharp spines covering the beast back.

Howling in pain the Nord clenched his teeth and held on grimly. If the dragon noticed his arrival, it gave no acknowledgment. Warm blood oozed down Hammel's leg, staining his burnt leather a brilliant crimson. Every flap of the dragon's wings further jostled his pierced limb, shooting bolts of agony into his body. Unfortunately for the injured Nord, he couldn't afford to delay, the guardsmen below needed him. Gripping the Kiss with his teeth, leaving both hands free, he felt the wound. Fortune was with him, the spine had punched clean through the leg, narrowly missing the bone. All that pinned him in place was a few inches of flesh, nerve and self-preservation. He knew what he had to do, but it wouldn't be pretty.

Biting down on the Dwemer dagger in an attempt to stifle the pain, Hammel gritted his teeth and yanked. His skin tore with a sound akin to ripping a sheet of parchment. As he pulled free, a wave of excruciating pain washed over him. He felt warm blood gushing freely from the devastated limb, each nerve ending burning with pain. The world around him darkened, yet he held stubbornly to his consciousness. If he passed out all would be lost.

Dagger still clenched in his teeth, the Nord took hold of a spine closer to the dragon's head, dragging himself painfully forward. The dragon's rough scales rubbed horrifically against his tattered leg, each movement wracking his body with agony. His eyes watered with pain, his body ached, yet he pressed on, grabbing another spine. Pulling himself forward, the Nord moved from spine to spine, trying desperately to make it to the dragon's head. Though the dragon flew to and fro, his motions sporadic and jostling, the former scout held on stubbornly. His will remained iron even as the blood drained from his body.

Finally, after what was no doubt a few moments but felt like an eternity, the Nord was clinging grimly to the dragon's neck. The great beast still had taken no notice of him, but certainly would when he made his move.

"This plan seemed so much better in my head," he mumbled to himself as he spat the Kiss into his right hand. His left was wrapped around the dragon's last back spine, his battered body ready to make that near suicidal leap for the dragon's head. If all worked according to plan, he'd wrap his free arm around the dragon's head and stab it repeatedly in the eye with the other. The Kiss's draining magic would heal his grisly wounds and simultaneously weaken the great beast. The combination of a blinded eye, confusion and magical draining would hopeful crash the beast, allowing Hammel and the guardsmen to finish it off.

_Hopefully I'll survive the crash landing; that'd be preferable._

Hammel took one deep breath, braced himself on the last spine with his remaining good leg, grabbed the Kiss tightly and launched himself forward.

It seemed the Nine themselves were watching over him as the first step worked brilliantly. The Nord slammed onto the dragon's head, gripping its ear tightly with a free hand. Even as the dragon snarled and tried to shake the man from its head, the second phase of Hammel's insane plan went into action. Gripping his dagger tightly, he snarled with anger and pain, driving the Dwemer weapon deep into the dragon's massive eye. The orb exploded like an overripe orange, shooting gore and jelly in all directions.

The beast dropped suddenly with a howl, shaking its head as the ruined eye spouted ooze like a fountain. Yanking his dagger free, the Nord stabbed at the beast again, this time driving the point into the soft flesh around the dragon's now decimated eye. As the blade punched deep into the tender flesh, Hammel triggered the Kiss' draining enchantment.

Man and monster howled as one as the dragon's life essence was stolen away to painfully reknit Hammel's tattered leg. Though a beast as great as the dragon had a mighty reserve of life-essence, the sudden loss of even so little amount, combined with the trauma to its eye had the desired effect.

Like a sparrow struck with an arrow, the dragon plummeted, howling its rage and anguish to the world. Hammel clung to the monster's head with all his desperate strength, dagger still buried in the soft skin around the eye. His mind was filled with hurried prayers to Azura and the Divines begging them to spare him. His lungs and heart seemed to leap out of his chest as man and beast fell, shoving their way into his throat. The wind whistled past them at an alarming rate as the monster plummeted like a stone.

The ground rushed up to meet them; the collision happening in a second. There was a deafening crack as several bones snapped on impact, a vicious tearing as wing-membrane ripped to shreds against the rocks. During its impact, the dragon's body carved a shallow trench, plowing through the hard packed dirt and uprooting trees. Hammel was flung from his perch on the dragon's head, flying forward several meters before slamming painfully into the snowy tundra ground.

His head buzzed with pain, leg still raw from the damage and rapid repair of the vicious wound. Groggily, the Nord pushed himself to his hands and knees, body swaying in agony. Nothing felt broken, though that hardly meant something wasn't.

_I'm running on adrenalin, need to check myself proper._

A roar originating from behind him, reminded the Nord that the battle wasn't over. Fear did wonders for his body, driving him back to his feet in seconds.

Standing tall and spinning around, the ex-legionnaire realized the full danger of his situation. The rough landing had thrown him forward, directly in front of the dragon's gaping maw. The view when he turned around was not pleasant.

He was standing squarely in the sights of the wounded beast, alone. Up close, the dragon seemed ever more terrifying than it had in the air, its head as big as Hammel's whole body, its remaining eye burning with pure hatred. The monster clearly wanted nothing more than to consume the Nord, body and soul, and he was standing directly before it. As the dragon forced itself upward on its wing hooks, Hammel glanced around desperately for a weapon. His swords had been lost in the creature's tail and the Kiss had fallen from his grasp when he'd been violently thrown.

Azura blessed him with her luck. A handful of meters forward and to the left, lay the body of a fallen Whiterun guard. Judging by the state of his armor and posture he'd been swatted with the dragon's wing or tail and thrown. The shattered remains of a hunter bow was still clutched tightly in a gloved fist and his sword remained in its sheath.

Hammel saw it; so did the dragon.

Without thinking he dashed towards the corpse, ignoring the screams of protest from his devastated leg, simultaneously the dragon's serpentine neck shot forward as the beast snapped at him like a python. Throwing himself into a forward roll, the Nord felt the movement of air as the dragon's jaw snapped overhead, gashing air where he'd been only an instant before. Mid-roll, he shifted his trajectory towards the left, dodging the dragon's follow up attack, a quick blast of flame aimed at the ground. The heat singed his body, but left him otherwise unharmed.

In his focused state of pure defense he was vaguely aware of a woman howling for more arrows, for steel, yet he couldn't afford to give them any attention. The dragon also seemed to be ignoring them, focusing instead on the mortal with the sheer gall to take the eye of a Dovah.

The Nord leaped forward, again, narrowly dodging a bite that would have split him in two. The dragon was striking with the speed and deadly precision of a powerful serpent, only years of training, the monster's half-blindness and an insane amount of luck had kept him alive thus far.

Another agile movement brought him to the guardsman's body, the fallen warrior staring eternally towards the skies.

_Thanks brother, swift journey to Sovengarde for you._

Without hesitation, while dashing by, the Nord reached down and yanked the fallen guard's blade free with a rasp of metal on leather. It was a cheap looking weapon, made from crude iron, handle bound in sheep skin, yet at that moment it looked to Hammel more beautiful than the finest Akaviri blade.

Gripping the sword firmly in both hands, Hammel pivoted as the dragon snapped forward again. As the monster's head snaked past him, the warrior put all his pain and rage into the blow, cutting a deep swath in the dragon's neck, his two-handed strike staining the blade with dark blood.

Growling, the dragon swung his neck towards him, striking with the force of a falling cedar. This time the Nord was ready.

Dropping to his knees, the former legionnaire thrust the blade upward, puncturing the tender flesh of the beast's under neck. The dragon's momentum did the trick, cutting a vicious stripe down the center of its throat on the upward blade. Hot blood trickled down Hammel's neck and shoulders; it was a painful wound but certainly not a lethal one.

He was rolling again as the wounded dragon lashed out with a wing tip, the strike clipping him painfully. He kept moving forward, pain ignored and purpose absolute. Rising to the other side of the dragon's head, he launched another two-handed blow upward, cutting a small chunk of flesh from the beast's face. Spinning around, he dodged the retaliatory strike, scoring another quick cut on the dragon's muzzle. He was leaving gashes all over the dragon's head now, little wounds that trickled blood onto the ground below, staining it dull red. His dance was that of death and pain, blows growing stronger even as the monster weakened. The continuous rain of arrows into the dragon's side were obvious now, the few remaining guards firing admirably, but in Hammel's mind there were no other combatants, simply him and the monster.

"Come on then, beast," he snarled between clenched teeth, blood dripping from his bashed mouth bubbled around his words, words coming out in gasps, "Let's take our place in history."

Curiously, the dragon seemed to understand him, a very brief, almost unnoticeable hint of sorrow misted in its remaining eye before filling again with the fires of hate.

The dragon snapped forward again, neck extended, teeth gnashing, as it had done before, breathing a gout of flame that would melt the very walls of Solitude.

But Hammel was ready.

He side-stepped the mighty dragon, ignored the smothering heat, the pain in a thousand places, the ribs he was certain were cracked, and the leg that was still partially tattered like a ripped cape. He ignored the fatigue in his battered arms and his exhausted shoulders. With a scream of anger and defiance, the Nord raised his blade with both hands over his head and plunged it with all his might into the dragon's neck.

The creature's flame ended mid-burst, the sword punching cleanly between scales, shredding its throat internally. It sagged, eye growing dim as Hammel tore the blade free in a spray of blood and bile. With another roar, the Nord plugged the blade downward again, ramming it even deeper into the dragon's throat.

Iron punched through flesh, the cheap blade splintered upon penetration, launching shards of metal to all corners of the monster's throat. It shuddered once and then collapsed. The impact of its body shook the very foundations of Skyrim, knocking Hammel onto his back, vision blurring, adrenalin finally fleeing his battered limbs.

The dragon lay still for a moment before something unexpected happened. A deafening whooshing sound, like a great wind, rushed throughout the area. The dragon's corpse shuddered several more times, before flashing a brilliant white. In an instant, the corpse was stripped of flesh, muscle, skin and nerve, leaving nothing but bones, sitting in a pile of rubble. It happened so quickly the Nord could barely believe his eyes.

However, the experience wasn't over. Suddenly he felt something, a great power washing over him, energy he couldn't see but could surely feel reaching to every corner of his being. His mind filled to the brim with a rush of memories that weren't his, words he couldn't understand, faces he didn't know. He collapsed to his knees, shutting his eyes tightly and grabbing his head with both hands, trying to expel the images from his mind. It was so much, so fast, crushing him with power and suddenness. Tears of pain leaked from his eyes, his mind battling the new one that sought to invade.

Then, as quickly as it started, it ended, all the images fading from memory, the words all silent. All but one.

Fus.

Instinctively he knew something, something about that word Fus, something he should have known before but could not possibly have. Fus, he felt an uncontrollable urge to speak it aloud.

Staggering to his feet, ignoring the onrush of guards gaping at the fallen dragon, he faced the skeleton and shouted. "Fus!"

A shock-wave of energy ripped from his mouth, slamming into the skeleton with the force of a warhammer. The bones shifted slightly as a tooth was thrown from its maw. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, men arguing about what this display meant. Hammel ignored them, bending to the ground and retrieving the dragon's fang. It was heavy as a dagger and razor sharp, still wet with the blood of man.

Raising the tooth high above his head, the Nord shouted, "For Skyrim!"

The remaining guards echoed his call proudly, "For Skyrim!" They shook their weapons and pounded their chests; screaming their victory for all Skyrim to hear. Hammel pumped the tooth again before the men, his heart filling with pride. They had done the impossible.

The cheer slowly changed as from the back, one man shouted, "Hail the Dragonborn!"

That comment stunned Hammel. Dragonborn? Him? As he attempted to ponder what the man had said, the strange rush of energy he'd felt upon the dragon's death vanished. A cloud of blackness swarmed his vision, dragging him downward, he was vaguely aware of another man shouting, "Leknar is right, he must be Dragonborn!"

The men started chanting "DRAGONBORN! DRAGONBORN!" as he hit the ground and blackness consumed him.

* * *

><p>Thousands of miles away, an old man's eyes suddenly snapped open. He was dressed in simple robes of dark grey, his feet garbed with sandals. The hood on his head was left down, exposing his face to the elements. His features were weathered a wrinkled, his hair and beard a light grey, blowing about in the fierce wind. He sat on a straw mat, legs tucked underneath him, meditating on the small, open-air tower. Snow covered his head and shoulders, his beard coated with little white flakes, yet he remained motionless, as though nothing more than a statue.<p>

His meditations had been interrupted. Something key had happened, something he had not felt in many long years. "Dovahakiin?" He breathed the word almost silent. His whisper was instantly swallowed up by the fierce winds of Skyrim, blowing away like the snow flakes.

He stretched out with his essence, felt again for the power of the thu'um. It was there, beating faintly. "Dovahakiin." He said again, aloud this time, confirming to himself what he already knew.

The old man smiled, the snow on his face falling away due to the sudden movement. It had been many years since his heart had swelled as it did now.

A Dragonborn had come.

* * *

><p>AN: I am aware of Irileth's magical talents in game, but I find magic is better as a rarer gift, hence I have removed magical abilities from some characters, like Irileth. I'd also like to thank my beta once again and encourage you all to review! Believe me, reviews are very appreciated and go a long way to make this little ballad better and encouraging my work.<p> 


	14. Re-Knitting Bones

AN: Another chapter down! This one took a bit, but I'm pleased with its end result.

In response to Eromancer's anonymous review(Thanks for reviewing by the way) and to anyone else wondering, when I said I'd reduce mages, I didn't mean make them less powerful. Contrary, I think mages in my story may end up being more powerful than in vanilla Skyrim. What I meant was, I intended to reduce the number of people capable of using magic, like Irlieth, as magic is a rare and wonderful gift.

With that out of the way, onto the chapter!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14<strong>

**Re-knitting Bones**

"_Damn broken bones. Never heal right."- Vegnar, Nord mercenary. Circa 1E 1206 The saying has since widely become a common utterance by injured soldiers, both of king and coin._

"It was the most foolish thing I've ever seen. Damn near bravest as well." Skjor muttered to Kodlak around the stem of his pipe. The two Companions sat by Jorrvaskr's blazing fire in comfortable armchairs, each old warrior with pipe in hand. The fall of the dragon had been not even a day old and already word was spreading across Whiterun like wildfire. Not only had a dragon appeared, but had been slain!

That wasn't all. The rumors of a Dragonborn continued to circulate, each more bold and embellished than the last. Until the man, himself, spoke up and proved his mettle, they would remain that way.

"I didn't think you cared much for him," Kodlak observed, wizened eyes squinting slightly behind his beard, "Or for reckless acts of bravado."

"I don't," Skjor ground out, voice sharp as flint. "But there wasn't much choice. The dragon was roasting those poor bastards from up high; I only caught glimpses of it."

Kodlak gestured with his pipe. "The Khajiit send their regards, and payment, for a job done well." He placed the pipe back in his mouth, blowing a smoke ring, "Pity you couldn't get a good look at the battle from where you were."

"I saw well enough," the response was simple, without intonation. The scarred veteran gazed into the fire, momentarily lost in thought. "I saw him leap from the tower unto the dragon's back, and the beast fall. I saw the dragon's bones myself." He shook his head, "Still, doesn't mean I have to agree with you."

Kodlak's beard danced as the old man shook his head, "My opinion is unchanged, I want Greymist among the inner circle. He is not an old man, nor is he an unshaven youth. Whether or not the Dragonborn rumblings are true, I believe he is a man of honor and would gain just as much as he would add."

"You like this young man," Skjor noted, stating the observation as fact, rather than opinion.

"Yes."

"He reminds you of Brogan."

Kodlak's tone became icy. "Any resemblance to my son, imagined or actual, has no bareing on his worthiness or my opinion of him. Is that clear?"

The other Companion didn't take offense to the harshness of his old friend's response, nor did it completely alter his thoughts on the matter. "Crystal," he answered in response. Dumping the now utterly burned tobacco into the fireplace, Skjor got to the business at hand. "I've arranged a trial for our newest potential. If he is up for the challenge, and responsibility, he can make an attempt." The veteran Companion paused a moment, leaning back in his chair. "I wonder," he mused, chin rested in a gauntleted hand, "What he will think of our...condition."

Kodlak didn't respond at first. The weathered Harbinger's eyes lost focus, as if looking at nothing, gazing into the very past itself. "I still wonder that myself."

Skjor snorted, "I know full well the strength of our blessing, and you should be more grateful for it. The glory we've won because of the power granted is almost beyond counting. We are fortunate men." The two friends and Companions sat silently for a moment, simply sitting together.

"Aela has agreed to lend her aid with providing certain materials, once she returns from her trip to Falkreath. She's leaving this afternoon, in case you want to wish her well."

The old Nord shook his head. "Unnecessary, Aela knows what she is doing, I trust she'll sort this matter out in good time. Whatever is occurring in Falkreath must be important."

Skjor grumbled, "Well, whatever it was, she wouldn't tell me. I hope your assessment is truer than mine. Lass is headstrong."

"But not foolish; very much like her mother."

The other man snorted, "Remember how that tale ended, old man." His tone was full of black humor, his scarred hands fiddling with the empty pipe. Its bowl was still warm to the touch even though the clay cooled rapidly.

"Fear not brother," Kodlak encouraged, clasping his dear friend on the shoulder. "Aela also has her father's sense. She won't do anything too rash."

"I certainly hope so."

* * *

><p>Hammel wasn't expecting Farengar's face to be the first thing he saw when he came to. In fact, if given a choice, the Court Wizard would be near the very bottom of his list. Somewhere above Hermaeus Mora but below Mehrunes Dagon. Unfortunately, when Hammel finally snapped his eyes open, recovering from his stupor, there the mage stood. The tall, gangly man was muttering indignantly under his breath, mashing some kind of plant into a fine paste using his mortar and pestle.<p>

The Nord was unbelievably thirsty. "Water," he croaked voice like sandpaper, vision blurry. His head hammered with the force of a dozen hangovers and his body was wracked with dull pain. He was laying on a cot in a structure he didn't recognize, a fine wool blanket pulled up to his chin.

Farengar glanced up casually from his work. "Welcome back to the land of the living," he responded unpleasantly. The mage squinted from behind his tiny beard, taking in the other man's condition. "Might I say, you look frightfully atrocious."

"Water," he growled again, breaking off in a fit of coughing. His lungs felt like they were burning, each heave of his chest causing more pain.

The Court Wizard snatched up a pewter mug, resting on a small table at the end of Hammel's bed, filling it with water from a small cask, also on the end table. "Calm down," Farengar responded tersely, passing Hammel the mug of water. "You think you're the only one recovering in this infirmary?"

After taking a long draught of the delicious, sweet, cold water, which soothed his ravaged throat, he glanced around. Sure enough, there were other beds in the room, each occupied by a Whiterun guard. Many had suffered horrifying burn marks or other injuries. Few were conscious.

"Where... where am I?" He mumbled, taking another greedy drink from the mug, water dribbling down his goatee onto his chest.

"Dragonsreach infirmary," Farengar responded nonchalantly. "You've been here since you passed out following that scrap with the dragon." He retrieved his notebook and a small hunk of bone, before sitting down in a chair next to the bed. "I understand congratulations are in order, Dragonborn."

Hammel nearly choked on his water. "Dragonborn? I doubt that." The very notion of being Dragonborn seemed pretentious. No matter what had happened or how he felt the previous evening or what he'd seen, there was no way he was Dovahkiin.

"Well you're certainly no Martin Septim," the Court Wizard said icily, "But you do seem to have the blood of dragons." Tossing the chunk of bone onto the bed, Farengar continued. "I saw the skeleton myself. Flesh doesn't rot away that fast. However, what I know of ripping a dragon's soul from its body suggests catastrophic destruction of all non-skeletal materials." He nodded at the bone hunk, "That particular specimen came from the late dragon, most of which is still sitting near the tower; the rest in my study. Fascinating material, dragon bone…"

"How can I be Dragonborn?" Hammel asked again, drilling the mage with questions, in hopes of answering his own.

Farengar shrugged his scrawny shoulders. "I've read several theories. One suggests that the power is in the blood that is, inherited from your father and mother. Another suggests that all Dragonborn are touched by Akatosh, blessed with their gifts when the need is dire enough." He snorted, chuckling to himself, "I also heard a philosopher once suggest that all men are Dragonborn, we just have to believe in ourselves." The Court Wizard's derisive laughter continued, "I don't put much stock in that particular theory." He held up his hands in a "stop talking" gesture before Hammel could butt in. "Look, before you go on, needing more proof that you have the dragon blood, I'll just end this. You shouted, without training. Everyone saw it, the effects were felt and, moreover, you know it too." He paused, letting the words sink in. "You are Dragonborn."

The Nord looked down at the empty mug in his hands. A thousand questions raced through his mind, about his past, present, future. "What do I do now?" He asked the mage quietly, not sure why he bothered.

"Do I look like an oracle to you?" He responded derisively, "Figure it out." He turned away from the Nord, and moved towards the door. "The Jarl wished to be informed when you awoke, I'll tell him you're recovering."

The Court Wizard hadn't finished leaving the room before a woman entered. She was middle-aged, clearly Imperial, with wrinkled olive skin and stringy hair. Her eyes darted to and fro frantically, taking in every occupant in the room. In her hands was a large wood bowl, a horrifyingly foul stench rose from it.

She looked Hammel up and down; giving him the same attention another would give a prized cow. "Glad to see you're awake," she approached his bed side, hands fiddling with the paste inside her bowl. Without a word, she reached under his blanket and grabbed his right leg, where the tear had been made.

Hissing in pain, the Nord attempted to smack her hand away. He winced as the sudden movement sent a burst of pain through his chest. "Stop your fretting," she ordered, slapping his hand to the side, "I'm checking to see if the poultice held."

"I don't normally let a woman grab me under the sheets without giving me her name," he joked through gritted teeth, letting the healer do her job.

She snorted, "Is that supposed to amuse me?" She went back to examining his leg before clicking her teeth. "My name is Arcadia, I run the Caldron here in Whiterun. I'm pleased to see you didn't rub my concoction away during the night."

"I thought Farengar…"

"You thought he did this?" She raised a solitary eyebrow. "My dear lad, Farengar is absolutely useless with healing magic, and unwilling besides. You'll have to settle for a lowly herbalist." Dipping a small brush into her bowl, the woman began lathering it with her herbal remedy. "Now," she commanded, moving the brush towards his leg, "Hold still, this will sting a bit."

That proved to be an understatement.

A hiss rattled his lungs, once again filling his chest with pain. "My chest hurts," he growled, trying not sound like a whiny child.

Arcadia snorted. "That's to be expected when one breaks half a dozen ribs." She slapped him across the face, "I said hold still!" He was trying not to squirm as the poultice worked its way through the injury; it was a burning sensation, killing the multitude of infections that had already seeped into the wound. "We force fed you a potion, don't worry," she drawled on, slathering her brush with more of the disgusting mixture. "They're re-knitting. It'll take a bit of time, so avoid conflict, and walking." She tapped his injured leg gently with the brush, "This limb won't take much more punishment." She jerked her head in the direction of a sturdily constructed and comfortable enough looking pair of crutches. "Unfortunately, knowing you fighter types, you'll want to be up and about. If you insist on tearing open your legs again use that." She had begun muttering under her breath about stupid recklessness; the swabbing of her brush became fiercer.

Fortunately for the injured Nord, Balgruuf chose that moment to arrive. The Jarl breezed into the room, royal furs billowing dramatically, his crown freshly polished and beard braided. He was accompanied by a quartet of royal guards and Irileth, who didn't seem any worse for wear. In the left guard's hand was a fairly lumpy object hidden behind a cloth. Hammel struggled to sit upright, but was unable, wheezing as the pain rattled his recently shattered ribs.

Balgruuf waved it away. "Stay down champion of Whiterun, no need to stand on ceremony." The man smiled, warming up the entire room. "The impossible was done. A dragon, slain. In my hold, honor has been done to all parties, I think." Before Hammel could respond to the Jarl's statement, Balgruuf held up his hands, "And please, spare me the false modesty you adventurers seem fond of. Yes, the others helped; yes, you were lucky. However, I did not hear of another man leaping off the Western Watch-tower onto the back of a dragon to save my city." He paused dramatically, turning momentarily to look at several of the other guards, lying unconscious on their cots. "That kind of courage..."

"Or foolishness," Irileth muttered under her breath without humor.

"Does not go unrewarded in my hold." He continued, utterly ignoring his housecarl's comments. Waving the guard with the covered object forward, he stated, "Thus I present you with the Axe of Whiterun." The guard yanked the cloth free exposing its contents. In his hands he held a meticulously crafted hand axe. The weapon was forged from pure steel, its handle bound with fresh leather. Carved into its head, on each side, was the stallion of Whiterun. It looked magnificently balanced and razor sharp. "I understand you favor a dual-weapon style, after losing both of your blades defending my city I felt a weapon was in order. It will prove a fine tool for the off-hand."

He smiled. "Congratulations, Thane of Whiterun."

That caught Hammel completely off guard. His breath halted in bruised lungs. Images flashed through his mind of a childhood on the streets, hunting for scraps of food and feeling worthless, being told he was a whore-son, a guttersnipe, and would never be any else.

"Thane?" The word squeaked out from cracked lips, lingering the air as fragile as a glass hand mirror.

"Indeed," Balgruuf smiled again, "Your housecarl is fixing your new dwelling as we speak. Please visit her shortly; I imagine she has some questions." As he turned to leave, Balgruuf paused before throwing something at Hammel. It was the fang he'd taken from the dragon's maw, a small hole had been drilled into it and a thick strip of leather ran through the hole. "I took the liberty of having the dragon's tooth threaded. It should fit around your neck or wrist or wherever you choose to hang it. Good day, Thane."

The Jarl strode from the room as briskly as he'd entered it. The conversation had taken maybe three minutes. In three minutes his life had changed completely. His moment of reverie was shattered as another jolt of pain worked its way up his leg when Arcadia spread more of her poultice. "Thane or no, this needs to go on. Now, grit your teeth and take it!"

The Nord grit his teeth and waited.

* * *

><p>Clob didn't much care for Belethor. The Breton was, in a single word, untrustworthy. He was lanky and pale, with eyes that resembled pieces of flint, and his oily hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. His skin was even less lined or scarred than the Orc's and he smelled faintly of rotting fish. He was a businessman, and not a trustworthy one.<p>

Still, Clob needed basic supplies, and to unload some of the loot he'd acquired during the flight from Helgen, no questions asked. He still had yet to find a partner for his journey deep into the wilds of Skyrim. However, he'd burn that bridge when he arrived.

"I was wondering something," Belethor asked the Orc as he fetched the winter blanket and jerky the mage had requested. "You're a mage, and, if I may say so, seem a powerful one." The greasy man's words became muffled as he dropped below the counter. "Why didn't you do battle with that dragon?"

The Orc shrugged his muscled shoulders, "Was not asked." The words rumbled from his maw like a bear awakening from hibernation. He folded his arms across his quarterstaff, making it obvious he wasn't interested in pointless questions, there was too much on his mind.

"Fair enough." The shopkeeper deposited a small canvas sack on the counter before beginning to fill it with the mage's items. "Let's see," he spoke, slowly dropping the items in one by one. "A wheel of cheese, three pounds of jerky, a winter blanket, two pounds of dried fruit, half a pound of tea leaves." He paused, rubbing badly tattered gloves across a barely shaved chin. "Sounds like someone is planning a long trip."

"Yes." Clob responded tersely, pulling his sack towards him, slinging it across his shoulder. The mage reached into his coin purse, silently counting out his owed amount. He placed the Septims on the counter one by one, not oblivious to the look of pure greed that crossed Belethor's face at the sight of the money.

"If you plan on heading out of the city you'll need help," he added helpfully, his faux concern not quite hiding the naked avarice. "Even a mage as powerful as you, could be vulnerable when traveling alone."

The Orc turned rather abruptly, his normal cheery nature finally exasperated by the scrap of a man. Without another word he strode from the general goods store, flinging the door open as he went. It banged shut behind him, cutting off Belethor's further attempts to engage him in conversation. He hadn't wanted anyone asking questions. He hadn't even intended to tell anyone he was leaving. Save that Nord, Greymist; Clob figured he owed it to him.

The sun beat down brightly in the Whiterun market; various vendors hawked their wares and coins were exchanged. Carlotta seemed particularly pleased with herself, humming an ancient ditty. After the thrashing Lianna had given Mikael, the widow seemed to have been left alone.

The Mage looked around the area, sizing up each occupant in turn. The greasy Breton hadn't been wrong, he did need a traveling companion. But who would he take? Certainly not Greymist, the Nord was too attached to his new-found home, besides, if the rumors were true, he'd be very occupied in the coming days. In a similar manner, he'd ask Farengar, but the Court Wizard had duties he couldn't possibly put off, especially now with a dragon's corpse to study. But who else did he know? Who else did his trust?

Pondering the decision before him, Clob crossed the street and entered the Bannered Mare tavern. Saadia was serving the few patrons present, moving elegantly from person to person, balancing a platter of drinks. Hulda remained behind the bar, wiping the counter down with an old rag. The middle-aged Nord didn't seem at all bothered or flustered by the midday rush, she simply smiled, head down and whistling a tune under her breath.

Clob took the situation in before setting himself at the bar. Mikael was still playing, his face much improved. The Nord in the iron armor, Sinmir, the Mage believed his name to be, continued to complain bitterly about the city guard while downing bottle after bottle of mead. Clob considered asking him for a moment, then discarded the notion. Any warrior worth his time wouldn't be that drunk.

An angry looking woman in plate in the corner was similarly dismissed; she seemed too bitter to be trusted. No other obvious warriors were visible in the tavern. There were few other patrons at all during that point in day, all farmers or citizens. He'd wait until night. Perhaps a mercenary or adventurer that seemed trustworthy enough would appear.

"Good evening, Clob." Hulda greeted him warmly enough, depositing a mug of cheap beer in front of him. "I took the liberty of pouring the same drink you ordered last night." It didn't look horrific. He barely remembered the taste; he'd been wrapped up in his notes the previous evening, studying and re-studying his map.

He smiled warmly, his tusks framing his face, "Thank you," he snatched the pewter mug up in one hand and drained it. "Another," he requested, gently returning the object to its place at the bar.

"Coming right up." The woman spun around gracefully to the kegs behind her, refilling the mug as Clob created a small pile of coins. "I'll miss you when you head out," she told him, honestly enough, placing the refill before him. The foam bubbled up happily over the side, frothy and white. "You've been a good patron, and fine company." She swept his coins off the counter into her money pouch with a practiced hand, counting them as they cascaded into the bag. "And you always paid your tab." She shot Sinmir a dirty glare, "Which is more than can be said for some."

At first, the Orc was going to ask how she knew he was traveling, but then decided against it. Aside from mages with mind reading capacities, none knew people better than bartenders. Either she'd noticed him studying maps or simply read his expressions. Regardless, denying it would be pointless.

"I will return, if I can." He responded, taking his second beer much slower than the first, his beard slightly damp with foam. "However, duty takes precedence. I must make my journey, or die trying."

Hulda had likely heard such grandiose statements before, but still seemed faintly concerned. "Will you be traveling alone on this quest then?" She begun filling a third mug for the mage, already knowing he'd request it.

Clob finished his tankard, before slamming it down definitively. "If I must."

Hulda seemed sympathetic to his cause. "Many men do difficult things in the name of honor. Preforming your quest alone, though admirable, is also foolish. Can you delay another evening?"

The Orc paused, mentally reviewing his plans. After a moment's consideration, he nodded. "Yes," he took another long draft of the Nordic beer, "I believe I can."

"Good," the woman smiled. "I know some people; they are mercenaries, but trustworthy ones," she defended, noting the Orc's look. "They are...interesting people. But I believe they would be most willing to assist in your cause. Whatever that may be."

Clob snorted. "We'll see."

* * *

><p>"Imperials," Lianna murmured, wiping blood off her longsword. "So very arrogant." The few scouts outside of Korvanjund had been in sloppy position, scattered around in little groups by fires or friends. They hadn't even noticed the Stormcloaks until they'd been among them, and by that point it was far too late.<p>

Galmar pulled the head of his axe out of the neck of one unfortunate legionary, almost severing what was left of the man's head. The carnage had been quick, bloody and brief. Not a single man had made it through the barrow's massive iron doors to warn the others, leaving the rebels with a potentially large advantage.

"Search the bodies," Galmar ordered his voice rumbling like a rock slide. "One of them is bound to a have a key for this gods-damn door!"

Snow was falling gently from the darkened sky above, blanketing all those present with a dusting of white. Galmar resembled an angry bear more than a man, his breath coming out in great clouds of mist. Lianna knew this was his mission, his passion; he'd pushed Ulfric to send them for the crown, and he didn't intend to let a few Imperial cowards stop him. For that matter, neither did she. If the future High King was to need the Jagged Crown she would die before letting it slip away from her grasp.

Ralof was already fishing through any visible pouches on the rapidly cooling bodies, brushing away snow and gore. Steam rose in the air as warm blood poured from corpses into the ground, melting the snow. Bending low in the snowdrift, Lianna gave her husband a hand. Her warpaint was smeared and her hair was coated in snow, the tips of her pointed ears turning blue with the cold. The wool lining in her gloves kept her hands warm, but made opening pouches difficult. In frustration, the elf began ripping the cheap leather apart, digging through its contents with her typical lack of flair.

Nothing worthwhile was revealed in this man's pouch, much to her frustration, so the elven renegade moved onto the next one. It wasn't her that found the key, however, it was Natala. The stocky woman waved Galmar over, clutching a leather strap in her hand. What certainly resembled a key of some sort dangled from it, though slightly stained with blood.

"Alright boys, form up!" Galmar barked, waving them over. With perfect discipline, each stopped their personal activities to join the officer. A large, predatory grin had rippled across his craggy face, as if he could almost see the crown already, feel its weight in his hands. His anticipation seemed to be leaking to the rest of the Stormcloaks, each unwilling to fail the Jarl to whom they bore so much devotion.

"Everyone, listen up," the old soldier began, looking at the gathered unit before him. "Resting somewhere inside that Barrow is the Jagged Crown." A low murmur rippled through the rebels. All had heard the legend of the Jagged Crown, of course, and each had been briefed before arrival as to the intended target. Yet to hear it spoken aloud, the name of an object of legend, it was stunning.

"Yes, that crown; the crown of dragon teeth, the crown still resting on the head of long dead king Borgas. It is within our reach." He closed his fist dramatically, demonstrating to all the nearness of their target. "We don't know how many Imperials are lurking within, trying to get it for their false queen. We don't know what traps or guardians may have been left behind by Borgas. But I do know this," he let the words hang in the air a moment before they fell like the snowflakes, "No amount of Imperials, or Daedra, or Mehrunes Dagon himself, will keep me from that crown! Now, follow me!" He pumped his fist in the direction of the Barrow before charging towards the door, drawing his axe as he went.

Natala sprinted ahead, moving to unlock the doors as the rest of the band gathered, ready to swarm the barrow's main entrance. Key in hand, the rebel gave a moment of pause, allowing her companions to draw their weapons. The Stormcloaks momentarily halted their charge, forming themselves in a fist shape, prepping for a breach into the tomb.

The stocky woman slipped the key in perfectly, nodded at Galmar, twisted it sharply and threw the doors open.

The portals parted, revealing an entrance area with a cheery fire roaring and several blankets scattered about. Two baffled looking soldiers, with pieces of armor strewn about the chamber, could only gawk at the party of heavily armed rebels battering their way into the entrance chambers. A third man stood hunched over a stew pot, in the process of turning to face them.

Galmar cleaved his axe clean through the first gawker's head with one powerful strike. Simultaneously, Lianna, with a single slice, disemboweled the other solider. As the man collapsed, trying desperately to hold his guts in, Thangar fired an arrow at the man by the stew. The Imperial caught the projectile in the neck, falling backward into the cauldron. His lifeless form knocked it over, spilling a mess of stew and putting the fire out. The spurt of blood flowing from his neck mingled with the stew.

The simple wooden door on the other side of the entrance chamber, adjacent to the pool of blood and stew, flew open. Striding through it, a grim look fixed on his face, was an Imperial captain. He was tall, Imperial blooded, and wore a proud mustache.

Snatching a throwing axe from his belt in an instant, Galmar whipped the weapon across the chamber with a snarl. The deadly missile shattered the man's skull, sticking from his head like a macabre unicorn horn. The captain staggered back, gurgling, before collapsing in a heap.

A dozen odd boots stamped over his fallen form, hammering down the tunnel into the barrow proper. The sounds of mad scrambling and bellowed orders echoed upward from the chambers ahead, signaling that the troops ahead were preparing for the rebels attack.

Lianna smiled like a hungry wolf. _Let them; it won't help._

Another wooden door blocked the Stormcloak advance, recently barred and supported by hastily thrown barrels. The wooden barrier proved absolutely no hindrance for the human wrecking-ball called Galmar Stone-Fist. Lianna watched, impressed, despite herself, as, without slowing, the burly man put his shoulder to the door. Wood fractured and shattered. Large splinters embedded themselves in the Nord's bear-skin armor. The Stormcloaks flooded the chamber after him, pouring through the empty door.

The battle that followed was a flash in Lianna's mind. Disconnected images dashed past her eyes as the battle ragged. A Legionnaire armed with a pickaxe rushed her, but a quick slice across the throat ended him. Another engaged her in swordplay and was likewise disposed. A third solider, a large Redguard with a shield and mace, followed the late duo, growling out a war cry. A swift downward strike removed his weapon hand and a follow up blow removed his head, helmet still attached. The Altmer morbidly watched it bounce away as his body slunk to the floor.

Much like the scuffle at the door, the fight was quick and brutal. Eventually, the chamber quieted, as if mourning the fallen warriors of both sides. Breathing heavily, the rebel elf took in the party's losses. Vorth was down, his wounds clearly mortal, Ralvin was moaning audibly, clutching the stump that was once his left hand in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. The bodies of fallen Imperials littered the room, mostly clad in leather armor or mining gear. Judging from the number of corpses, the Stormcloaks had done remarkably well.

Ralvin groaned again, his fur gauntlet stained red with his rapidly leaking blood. Upon seeing the maimed rebel, Galmar waved Lianna over, "Do something with him," he ordered sharply, "We need to keep moving before the Imperial's reinforce."

"I don't know any healing..."

The burly Nord cut her off, "You know fire. That should be enough."

The Elf almost immediately protested, but a small voice in the back of her head reminded her of the importance of this mission. Of the speed required. She nodded curtly to her commander, before approaching Ralvin. The injured man grimaced painfully up at her. "Am I going to die?" He growled out, between clenched teeth, trying to project some levity into his words.

The dark-haired Altmer shook her head. "Hardly, it's just a scratch." She smiled at him, trying to ease his discomfort. "I need you to hold out your..." she paused, trying to think of a sensitive way to phrase her request.

Saving her the trouble and potential awkwardness, the other rebel removed his good hand from the gory stump. His remaining fur gauntlet was stained a dull red, blood leaking steadily from the mutilated limb. "Just make it quick." He requested, looking very pale and nervous.

"One, two..." She began counting, readying a spell in her free hand. Ralvin winced, readying himself for the blow. Before she said three, the elf released a quick wave of impossibly hot magical flame. The fire washed over the man's stump, searing flesh and melting bone. Ralvin shrieked in pain as the wound burned closed. With surgical precision, the elven renegade, called back the magic flame before causing damage to Ralvin's otherwise uninjured person.

The Nord glanced down at his now cauterized wound, looked up at the elf, and then winced. "You didn't make it all the way to three." His response would have been comical if he wasn't obviously in agony.

Lianna gripped his shoulder. "Bracing would have only made it worse."

"That's between me and Talos."

She was going to give him an equally pithy and yet sympathetic reply before being cut off. "Draug!" Ralof howled, slamming his twin axes together for emphasis, "Coming up from the crypt!"

Lianna smiled brutally before drawing her blade. The Orcish steel sung magnificently as it came out. It would never match the chilling power of her first weapon, Frozen Heart, but she would make short work of the walking corpses. A smile on her lips, the elf dashed forward, ready to meet whatever foe came her way. Nothing would stop her from completing her mission. Nothing.

* * *

><p>Hammel Greymist hobbled towards Breezehome on his new crutches. At least, he hobbled towards the house fitting the description of Breezehome. After bestowing the title and honor of Thane upon his shoulders, and rewarding him with property officially, the Jarl's steward had given him directions to his new, permanent dwelling. While sleeping in Jorrvaskr had certain appeal, he would definitely enjoy the peace and quiet that came with living on one's own.<p>

The newly acquired Axe of Whiterun rested comfortably in a leather strap on his belt, as if it had always sat there. The Kiss had been recovered from the field of battle and returned to its rightful place under his arm. Dangling from the band around his neck, the dragon's tooth stood out boldly, a monument to the man who'd brought down the dragon. The Dragonborn.

The word had bounced around his mind the rest of the morning before he'd pulled himself from Arcadia's care. Legends, responsibilities and wonder had each taken hold of his thoughts at some point, only to be chased away when anxiety or turmoil took root in their place. Time would tell what would become of him. Until then, he'd stay close to home.

Wincing as his ribs rattled, the man continued putting one foot, and crutches forward. The wind blew by pleasantly, bringing a slight chill with it. The city remained undamaged, the dragon's focus had been directed exclusively at the watch-tower and his death there had prevented further carnage, for the moment.

The sounds of hammer on steel and rapidly cooling metal reached his ears; Adrianne was hard at work at her forge, smithing something into shape. According to the directions he'd been given by Proventus, his new home should be adjacent to Warmaiden's. While many wouldn't consider a home next to a blacksmith to be a pleasant location, the former soldier did. The sound of the hammer on anvil was a comfort, and the location of readily available tools a blessing. If the woman needed a hand, or was simply offering work, he would be available. Hopefully, the grindstone and armor bench would also be available for use; maintaining his own equipment was one thing the legion had drilled into him.

The house he assumed was Breezehome was pleasant enough. It was a compact building, sturdily constructed of well cut timber. Instead of a thatched roof it was covered with wooden shingles, keeping the heat much better, several glass windows dotted its exterior. The foundation, only visible from certain angles, was solid stone and sturdy. A simple oaken door protected the home, sealed with a simple, but sturdy looking, iron lock.

Bracing himself against his crutches, the Nord fished around in his pouch for the key he'd been presented with, mentally hoping he was correct with the location. His first act as Thane, explaining how he wasn't breaking and entering, simply lost, would be embarrassing. Fortunately for his pride, the key slipped perfectly into the lock, and clicked warmly after a single twist. Gripping the handle, he pushed the door open.

It was extremely pleasant on the inside. The first thing he noticed was a roaring fire, crackling happily away. Two comfortable looking armchairs sat across from it, waiting to be occupied. Between the chairs stood a small side table, the perfect height for resting one's beverages. A cluttering of bookshelves, chests and various cupboards stood mostly empty, awaiting the time when they'd be stuffed with various nick-knacks and trophies. A set of stairs led to an upper floor, a small table and dining area was set up towards the rear of the chamber, and past that, double doors led to a currently empty room.

The first thing Hammel did was sit on one of those chairs. Letting out a groan of relief, he leaned his crutches against the other chair and got comfortable. His solitary vigil lasted only a moment before the sound of heavy boots on the stairs behind him signified the presence of another.

Turning his head slowly to avoid further wrenching his injured body, Hammel got the first glance of his new housecarl.

She was tall for a woman, nearly six feet at first glance, with plenty of lean muscle packed onto her frame. Long dark hair, the color of midnight, flowed freely over her shoulders, cascading like a waterfall. She had a firm jawline, weathered skin and a rather plump nose. Her ocean-green eyes twinkled with an unruly fire, suggesting that she had some free will of her own. She was clad in armor, wrought of heavy Nord iron, a round, wooden shield slung across her back, and a long blade was belted to her waist.

She sniffed the air once and stated, with just a hint of superiority, "You smell quite foul."

Hammel was momentarily taken aback. He knew his housecarl likely wouldn't sing his praises upon their first meeting, but he didn't expect a comment on his body odor. "I've just come out of the Jarl's healing room. I haven't had a chance to bathe since the battle at the Western Watch-tower." He placed his hand on the side table, wishing to Talos there was a mug of cold mead there. He snorted a little, "I look atrocious, too."

The woman smiled very faintly, "That you do, indeed." She bowed her head politely. "I am Lydia, and I am sworn to carry your burdens." She grimaced slightly at her own comment. "I will serve you until you deem fit to release me, or death take me. I will be your sword and shield, I will..."

Hammel waved at her, "Yes, yes, I get it. Sit down." He gestured at the other chair, "Don't tire yourself out giving me the long version."

Lydia nodded gratefully, before slipping into the chair with the grace of someone well trained in heavy armor's use. The chair creaked slightly but held her weight. She clenched her hand up into a fist and rested her chin upon it, gazing at Hammel for a moment, analyzing him. 'I hope I won't have to stand on ceremony all the time with you." Lydia stated a length, "When I was being trained for duty they warned me it could be so, depending on the man." She gazed into his eyes for a moment, "You don't seem to be that sort of man. Stuffy titles and putting on arrogant airs doesn't seem your mug of mead."

It never failed to impress Hammel how much warriors could tell about their fellows with observation. He snorted, "Me? Put on airs? Hardly. I'm a simple man, just trying to do his duty. I'd be damned grateful for the help," he admitted to her. "But I'm no one's master. I respect you, you respect me. Sound fine?" The woman nodded. "Good, please get me a drink." He requested, "If there is one in this house."

"There is," Lydia responded, pushing herself to her feet. "Black-Briar mead is in the right cabinet, for future reference." She pointed at the cupboard specified. Taking a moment, the woman reached up, opened the cupboard door, and withdrew two bottles, the Black-Briar label clearly visible on them. Before returning to her seat, she passed Hammel his. "Will there be anything else, my Thane?" She asked, seeming almost serious with the term, rather than mocking.

"No." Hammel yanked the cork clear from the bottle with a pleasant popping sound. "I just want to sit here a moment." Placing the bottle to his lips, the Nord took a long, hearty draft. The refreshing mead tumbled down his sore throat, electing almost a sigh from him.

"I expected the Dragonborn would be taller." His housecarl stated, one eyebrow raised slightly.

The ex-Legionnaire refused to be baited, "Nothing has been proven yet." Even to him his denial seemed weak, particularly after Farengar's rebuttals to his earlier denials. "We know nothing for sure."

"We will when the Greybeards knock on the door." Lydia stated confidently, glancing across the fire towards Breezehome's entrance. "They can sense you, you know."

"I know the legends!" Hammel responded somewhat tersely. _Maybe that's why I'm so opposed to this. Like I'm not worthy to be one of them. What am I after all?_

"They will come."

He wasn't sure if the woman had faith in him, or wanted to see him fall. Still, he found her firmness oddly comforting.

"Well, we'll see..."

* * *

><p>AN Another one done. Please, don't forget to review, this story has 75 favourites and over a hundred subscribers, but very few of you are leaving reviews. I greatly appreciate them.<p>

Thanks for your continued support.


	15. A Worthy Adversary

AN: Thank you all everyone who's faved, reviewed and whatnot. You keep this story alive! And a quick shout-out to my mum for her editing.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15<strong>

**A Worthy Adversary**

"_The next best thing to a trusted comrade is a worthy adversary."- Mishaxhi, Akaviri military commander and philosopher. Quote from his book, "Thoughts from a Katana's edge." Original creation date estimated 1E 1263. First surviving copy dated 1E 1574_

_Young Hammel ran for his life. His lungs burned with exhaustion, tears streamed from his eyes, running rampant down his cheeks. His feet pounded against the cobblestone streets, snow fell from the skies above. His mind raced with turmoil, constantly looking backward over his shoulder in an attempt to catch sight of his pursuer. His heart hammered in his chest with the force of warrior's drum._

_Everything had changed in an instant; in one, terrible incident. The life he had, as he knew it, was over; his life at all might be over if he didn't keep running. _

_So, the whore's son ran, and ran. The ancient city of Solitude watched the child run from its perch, indifferent and uncaring._

* * *

><p><em>Young Lianna watched in horror as the flames licked the side of the building, blazing away in the night like a torch. Her hiding spot under the hay cart shielded her from the unfriendly eyes looking for her, from the unfriendly blades that would kill her. But her eyes weren't hidden, nor her ears; she saw everything, heard everything. She'd seen the woman who changed her young life forever, a woman now branded in her soul. She would never forget that face, every night before she closed her eyes it would be there, taunting her.<em>

_Lianna huddled in a ball, trying to make herself small, invisible. She mustn't been seen, mustn't be heard. Her whole body shivered with fear, silent tears fell as she muffled her sobbing beneath her arm, weeping for her loss._

_Whiterun watched the child cry, indifferent and uncaring._

* * *

><p><em>Young Clob stumbled over a root in the dark, falling hard to the ground. His lifeblood dripped down the side of his face from his now tattered ear. The young Orc's hands were stained with mud and blood, his simple clothes in tatters. He didn't have any real direction beyond forward and away, no real plan beyond survival. So he stumbled onward, soul chilled from panic, too frightened to cry.<em>

_He knew what he must do. He must live, for honor and justice's sake, he must live._

_The darkened forest watched the child struggle, indifferent and uncaring._

* * *

><p>The world around the man blurred as his Thu'um flowed through him. The power of the Voice infused his limbs, carrying him onward as if on the wind. His shouts were precise, powerful. His beard whipped behind him, his robes billowed about, his face was composed yet firm.<p>

Arngeir was the master his Thu'um. He focused intensely on the presence he sensed which was always just beyond his reach. The Dragonborn had revealed himself, made his presence known. The Greybeard knew one thing, the young man must be trained; he must master himself and his newly-found power, or another force would.

The weather itself bent before the power of his voice, unwilling to hinder the seemingly fragile, old man. He was not weak; he was not vulnerable, despite his appearance to the contrary. If not for his blinding speed, Arngeir was certain some bandit would have tried to take advantage of his elderly state. That bandit would have soon learned the hard way; the Voice was the only weapon he needed, one he'd devoted a lifetime to mastering. It was sharper than any blade and stronger than any spell.

Yet he had no time now for practice or delay. Every moment he spent traveling was another moment the Dragonborn could be harmed. He would be confused, bewildered and unsure of the great power he wielded, unaware of the agents no doubt moving to assimilate or destroy him. He must be trained, for his own safety and the safety of Skyrim.

That knowledge willed the old man to go faster. Arngeir shouted powerfully, spittle flying from his lips with each word. The whirlwind beneath his feet carried him on, faster than any horse, faster than any hawk, faster perhaps than a dragon.

Yet he feared it would not be fast enough.

* * *

><p>"It is magnificent." Ulfric stated without fanfare. His hands gripped the stone parapet fiercely, gazing out over the city of Windhelm from the castle walls. Snow fell steadily from the heavens, wind whipped past his face, blowing his hair and cloak behind. The Palace of Kings stood sturdy beneath his feet, lending him its quiet strength for the future. The comforting chill of mother Skyrim wrapped him in her powerful embrace, granting a comfort no mortal could give.<p>

He didn't look at Galmar when he spoke. He didn't need to. His friend had returned, as he'd promised, he would have the crown.

The Jarl had several difficult decisions before him and needed some air, hence, his retreat to the parapets.

"The Jagged Crown of legend, plucked from the skull of dead king Borgas, after we killed him again." The man shook his head, growling quietly, "Damn draugr." Galmar proudly pushed the crown forward. He was bleeding slightly from several untreated wounds on his forearms and face, his axe still stained with marrow and gore. Ulfric knew he'd not wasted a second before bringing him the Jagged crown, proving, yet again, his loyalty and single-minded devotion to the task set before him.

"Did many die?" The Jarl asked softly, still not looking at his truest friend. His voice was laced with a barely noticeable trace of sorrow.

"You don't want the answer to that, Ulfric." Galmar told him, his own emotions ably masked behind a wall of solid support, showing no hesitation. "Those who did die did not do so for nothing. This crown is a solid blow to the Imperial war machine, another step closer to true freedom from our oppressors. Our children's lives will be made better for their sacrifice. "

The Jarl picked up a loose stone from a nook in the parapet, bouncing it casually in his palm. His apperance was reflective, his stance proud but sad. "I know what the Thalmor's puppets say about me." He somberly gazed out over the city Galmar knew he loved so . "Contrary to what is said, I do not enjoy sending young men to their deaths. I do not take pleasure in war," Ulfric said, turning to look his friend directly in the eyes. "I would like nothing better than for this war to end; for the young, of both sides, to return to their homes and families. I remember every man who falls fighting for a cause he believed in." He tossed the stone from the parapet without further comment. Galmar stood by quietly, knowing Ulfric needed someone just to listen.

"I am a warrior, Galmar," he confessed, still not turning around. "War is all I know, yet I bare no love for it. Just as I bare no love for the politicians, tyrants, king-makers and blasphemers who started it." He spat over the wall, his face contorted with contempt. "While I respect a man willing to fight and die leagues away from his home, I cannot allow his masters to continue this charade; to oppress a free and proud people. I will not stand idly by while men bend their knees to elves!" He clenched his fist tightly, his eyes turning to flint. "So I fight. I press on, despite the pain in my soul, despite the sorrow I feel at the names of the dead, despite the nightmares every time I close my eyes; I press on. I press on because I must." He swallowed, letting the wind blow his hair about a moment. "I fight, because there is no choice. Skyrim must be free."

Ulfric clasped his hands tightly behind his back, standing silently for a moment. Galmar took the other's silence as his opportunity to speak. Holding the crown out before him, the gruff men said, "This crown brings us closer to achieving that peace, Ulfric. It will bring many supporters to your side. The sooner all of Skyrim falls behind your banner, the sooner we can be free. The sooner we are free, the sooner we can destroy those blasphemous Thalmor. The sooner that is done, the sooner we can achieve a true and lasting peace for our age."

Ulfric nodded, taking the Jagged Crown from Galmar's hands. Without hesitation, the Jarl of Windhelm placed it upon his head. The crown fit proudly, matching the Jarl's head like it had been forged for him.

"It's a sign!" Galmar stated proudly pounding his barrel of a chest twice. "Talos is with us! The Nine favor us!"

Ulfric allowed himself a sad smile. "What you say is true, old friend. I have never doubted the gods' support. My only regret is that not all Nords see these truths as you and I do." He resumed his stance leaning upon the castle wall, gazing over Windhelm again. "Raising my blade against old comrades is difficult."

"I take no pleasure in striking down old friends myself," Galmar admitted, returning to his neutral posture. The big Nord became very reflective, remembering battles fought long gone, friends now dead and buried. "Though, if they truly loved Skyrim, they would not fight for an Empire so desperate to placate the enemy that sought to destroy our way of life! We shed blood in the great war stopping those damn elves! Thousands of good men died, fighting to safeguard their families and freedom! What did their Empire do? How did they honor those sacrifices? By compromise!" He spat furiously upon the ground, forcing all his hatred into that one gesture. "This is our only option now, the only way we can honor our friends long dead."

Ulfric suddenly chuckled, his attitude taking a complete turn about, "Do you remember the battle of Long-River? Rikke was so certain we'd all die that day, she drafted her will!" He leaned over the parapet chuckling again, "I almost believed it myself, the sight of all those elves in their golden plate charging towards us." He turned and looked at his friend, smiling slightly behind his beard. "The two of us knew right away someone was missing, and, after a head-count, we determined you weren't present. Thus began a mad scramble to find you." The Jarl shook his head cordially, a far away look in his face.

"Rikke and I, under orders from the Legate, began combing the camp for you. We looked everywhere we could think of, checked in with everyone we knew. While I never doubted, whispers began spreading that the mighty Stone-Fist had turned coward and fled in the night." Ulfric leaned back and laughed heartily, "You, afraid? The opposite was true!"  
>Galmar held out his arms in protest, "I'd just been involved in a night raid!" He gave a rare smile of his own, "and I'd had too much mead..."<p>

Ulfric continued on with his story, as if his friend had never spoken. "We'd almost given up hope of finding you when the snoring reached our ears. Rikke looked into that tent and laughed until she cried..."

The rebel leader's tone shifted very suddenly, trailing off into nothingness, his smile turned to a downward glance, the Jagged Crown seemed to press down on his head like a great rock. "Galmar," he confessed quietly, turning away from his old friend to gaze over the city, "I pray to Talos every night that I do not see her on the battlefield." While his tone was emotionally neutral, Galmar knew he was struggling. "Yet I ask my men to go into battle against old friends, family, lovers." He shook his head. "We must be strong, despite our selfish natures. Rikke chose her side." The Jarl turned from the wall and began walking down the tower's stairs.

As he departed, Galmar could vaguely hear Ulfric murmur under his breath, "As did I."

* * *

><p>"If we reinforced the two cohorts stationed at Dragon Bridge with three pulled from the seventh legion, that would give us more than enough men to push the rebels out of Winterhold." Quintus Descimus boldly proclaimed, jabbing with two fingers for emphasis the small community on the map. His brow was furrowed with passion, his free hand stroking the horse-hair plume on his helmet, which he'd left sitting on the table. "Winterhold is far too close to Solitude for safety's sake. If we let Ulfric maintain his hold on that city, I guarantee you, we will regret it."<p>

Tullius said nothing. The veteran general stroked his chin with a weathered hand, looking down at the parchments before them. Rikke said nothing at all. The woman watched, gathering the thoughts of the three men.

Quintus looked no worse for ware, despite his desperate battle with the Dogs of War. He left that scrap with just another scar to add to his already impressive collection. His forces proceeded to make short work of that mercenary band, stamping it out so thoroughly it was still unknown whether any of the Dogs had survived at all.

The other officer in the room was Legate Metilus, a burly Imperial man. Nothing about him was subtle. From his large bushy sideburns to his mostly toothless grin, the man was the very image of a career soldier. He was quite tall for an Imperial, built with the width of a small mountain and the personality to match. His dull eyes gleamed with a lust for battle that was never quite stated. His sense of superiority was never totally contained as he stared down at his fellow officers from behind his pug nose. Rikke didn't care much for him overall; he shared Tullius' view of her people, and was far too vocal about making it known.

"We can't spare the men," Metilus replied, looking across at Quintus, "I need them down near Falkreath. Ulfric's rebels have been probing it constantly for the past week. If they launch an all-out attack, they will take the city without those men there." He scowled, taking on a slightly menacing look in the Castle Dour candlelight. "Siddgier refuses to listen to my warnings about the rebel threat. The pompous ass has barley any militia worth mentioning. We need those legionaries to guard the road out of this damn country; losing the road would cut us off from supplies and trap us here." He folded his arms, scowling at the imagined rebels lurking in the shadows.

"If we take Winterhold, Ulfric will be far too concerned with the threat we'd pose to his northern front to attack Falkreath!" Quintus protested, slamming his fist on the table. "We need to strike now before Ulfric knocks on Solitude's gates!"

"We can't spare the men! It will take months before the local levies are trained and I can't, in good faith, send you those troops!"

Tullius held up his hands, silencing both Legates. He leaned over the table, giving a barely audible grunt. "You both make good points, we can't afford to lose Falkreath, but I agree with Legate Descimus. If we don't pull the Winterhold thorn out from underfoot now, it will fester." He turned to face Quintus, "Legate, how many men, honestly, would you need to take Winterhold."

Quintus spoke without bravado. "At least three more cohorts."

"Make it more than that," Rikke finally spoke up adding her opinion. She looked each man fully in the face, "When we march on that city, everyone who was on the fence, anyone wavering about whose side to support, will jump ship to Ulfric. Everyone trying to avoid the war and stay neutral will follow suite once our men roll in. They'll believe the Stormcloak propaganda; that we're the invaders out to crush them underfoot, and they'll fight us tooth and claw." She looked down at the simple word 'Winterhold' printed with a practiced hand. "Nothing is more dangerous than a Nord fighting to protect his home and family."

Metilus snorted. "It sounds like you admire that traitor Ulfric and his filthy horde." He spat disgustedly on the floor, giving a sour expression that implied he thought more of his own saliva than he did of Skyrim.

Rikke's eyes flashed and she clenched her fists tightly. "Hold your tongue. There is plenty to admire about people fighting to defend their homes, to protect their honored traditions, to preserve their gods. It is far more than we are doing!"

Quintus raised an eyebrow at the outburst but Tullius sighed deeply. "Rikke," the general began in a slightly exasperated tone, "we have orders. The White-Gold Concordat are orders, which we will follow regardless of our personal preferences."

"I think your former...involvement with Ulfric is clouding your judgment," the bushy side-burned Legate sneered, looking down his nose at the Nord. His air of superiority hung so thick, Rikke could not have found her way out of it without a torch.

She tired to keep her cool for a moment, to ignore the slander he casually thrown her way, but her fiery Nordic temper flared up in an instant and would not be held in check.

"How dare you imply that I let feelings get in the way of duty!" Rikke snarled, dropping her hand almost to her sword. "I'm standing here, unwavering in my loyalty to the Empire, over old friends who, even now, I like far more than you, milk-drinker!"

"Enough!" Tullius roared, cutting both off before the argument could continue. Purposely ignoring both, he turned to Quintus, "I'll get your three cohorts, and furthermore, I'll ensure you get two cohorts worth of town guard and millita to bolster the offense. I want Winterhold; I want it before the month is over."

The general quickly scribbled down the command on a scrap of parchment, stamping it with his official seal. After Quintus received it, he confidently proclaimed, "I'll have that city under your command within ten days."

"Very good," Tullius pounded his chest in salute, "Dismissed." He turned to the only woman and spoke, "Rikke, stay here a moment."

As the other two Legates filed out, Tullius pinched the bridge of his nose. He shut his eyes and he breathed heavily. After a moment of simply looking at her, he finally spoke. "I know that you Nords are a passionate lot, but exploding all over Metilus isn't helping." He held up his hand to silence the response before it came. "I don't doubt you Rikke, you've proven your loyalty to the Empire far more times than necessary, but please, keep your religious affiliation private. Talos is no longer a god."

"Who the gods are and are not isn't dictated by elves." Her voice was flint, but non-aggressive towards the general.

"No they are not. But they are dictated by the Emperor." He looked at her firmly. "And these rebels are opposed to the lawfully placed Empire, an empire that has only Skyrim's best interests in mind."

"I'm sure the Redguards thought much the same before our Empire cut them loose." Tullius' gaze dropped slightly; Rikke backpedaled, instantly regretting her statement. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for, sir." She shook her head sourly. "It's hard, when something you love makes decisions you don't understand."

Tullius nodded, "The sooner we get this rebellion put down, the sooner we can turn our attention to the real enemy. I'm sure you're aware of that." He looked at her with a somber expression. "I know you will not let past friendships overcome your sense of duty, regardless of what Legate Metilus says. Is that right?"

Rikke nodded, "Yes, general." The words were flat but without hesitation.

"Good." That seemed to be his final word on the matter. "Now, get some rest, we've a war to win."

* * *

><p>The smothering heat and fat lazy flies reminded Aela of her childhood. The constant sense of fear the citizens were exuding, like a cloistering odor, did not. Aela was glad she'd left her fur cloak behind in Whiterun, because Falkreath seemed to be on the verge of boiling itself like a stew.<p>

The Companion grimaced as yet another drop of salty sweat dripped through her eye. She preferred the tundra's proud chill to this sweltering, sticky mess, childhood experiences or no. Simply because her mother had preferred the southern portions of Skyrim, was she destined to constantly revisit them? Hircine, she hoped not.

The Huntress shook her head dismissively, disgusted with herself for allowing something so trivial was the weather to bother her. She was here for a reason, and that reason was not to sift through old memories.

Currently, she stood a respectful distance away from the famous Falkreath graveyard, head bowed somberly,. So many warriors, heroes and soldiers lay buried beneath that soft dirt, including a few she had known. However, Aela wasn't there to mourn the dead, not in the traditional sense. Instead, she watched as the remains of a little girl were buried to the lament of a mother's weeping and a father's barely contained grief. Old Runil, the Altmer priest of Arkay, was doing his best to provide some comfort to the now childless couple, but he himself was obviously shaken by the events.

In the past, witnessing something like what this couple was experiencing would have left Aela broken, reducing her to a blubbering mass at the memory of her own losses flooded back. She was stronger now, she could bare the whips and scorns of anguish with pause.

"Lord Arkay will shelter Lavinia in his gentle embrace," Runil intoned softly, gripping the man's shoulder tightly. "He will shelter her in Aetherius until you can be reunite once more." His eyes watered with sadness, "There, there is no more pain of suffering, no more death. She is at peace now." He looked at the fresh grave sorrowfully before turning back towards the father, "While we can never know the meaning of the gods' actions, we can take comfort in their control. Your daughter will see you again."

"Amen." Aela muttered quietly. While Hercine would always be her patron, she could certainly appreciate the comfort a good priest of Arkay could provide, and Runil was one of the best. The old elf had seen and done plenty, yet always found time to provide a listening ear and comforting shoulder for the suffering. He'd done it for Aela years ago and continued doing it for others; a quality the huntress greatly admired.

She stood alone under those pines, her war paint dripping down her face with globs of sweat. The flies buzzed irritatingly around her head, but she remained immobile.

After a few moments, the priest of Arkay shared a few more words with the grieving couple before turning from the graveyard. Aela waited for the elderly man to return to his cabin before approaching. She made no effort to disguise her footsteps and approached slowly, to avoid startling the couple. As the man turned to face her, the Companion held up her hands in a none threatening gesture. "My name is Aela, and I mean you no harm."

The man turned away from her, gazing at the little patch of dirt that now held his daughter. "I'm Mathies, and you couldn't hurt me, not any more." His voice cracked with sorrow and he began shaking violently, "I'm already broken beyond repair." He wrapped his arm around his wife, pulling her tight against his side. He decided that it didn't matter what the stranger thought of him and began sobbing. His speech devolved into rasping sobs, tears streaming down his face; his whole body shook back and forth with the depth of his sorrow.

"I'm sorry for your loss." The huntress stated rather blandly, feeling it to be the appropriate thing to say. She'd never been good with people's feelings, not even around Skjor, who was the closest thing she had to love. Folding her hands behind her back, Aela gently felt the tip of her bow, something that she always understood and could always rely on. The weapon was more friend to her than half the people she knew.

Mathies snorted darkly. "Yeah, you're sorry, Runil's sorry, everyone's sorry!" His words became increasingly venomous and the shaking in his body subtly became more aggressive. "Everyone talks about 'my loss' like it was a tender thing. Like Lavinia passed away in the night, or died of some wasting disease." He closed his hands into fists, snarling out, "but that's not true. My daughter was butchered! Ripped to shreds in the prime of her life! Where's the sense in that?"

Phrasing her next statement as carefully as possible, Aela stated. "If I may, how did your daughter die?" Her expression was one of attempted sympathy, one trait she'd never been good with.

"How did she die?" Mathies responded, voice deathly quiet. "It was Sinding, a worker of mine. Seemed like an okay sort, never had trouble with him before. One day, while my daughter was playing in the fields he..." The farmer's voice broke and he paused, trying to gather his words. "He transformed into some sort of monster and he tore her to pieces. We found him, sitting in that field, covered in my daughter's blood, a vacant look on his face look on his face. He didn't even deny that he did it!"

"Where is Sinding now?" Aela probed, having finally discovered what she needed, the individual she required.

The farmer finally turned to face her, craning his neck so he could meet the huntress' gaze. "In the Jarl's dungeon. He won't even execute the bastard! Gave me some speech about Sinding's 'condition', and lack of evidence!" He turned back towards the gravestone, gazing downward silently. "Where's the justice we've been promised? My daughter is dead, and her killer yet breathes." Mathies evidently ran out of angry energy, and sunk into a depressed quiet. He slowly stopped sobbing, body becoming still. His wife had long ago exhausted her grief and resembled a statue more than woman.

"I will get your justice," Aela stated calmly, with no more inflection than commenting on the weather. Without waiting for the farmer's reply, Aela walked off.

_My intuition was indeed inspired by Lord Hircine, there is a rogue werewolf in Falkreath. He must be dealt with swiftly, for both the lord's sake and for the Companion's honor._

Her stride was swift and sure, her purpose clear; the city nothing but a hindrance. In mere moments she'd reachedthe Jarl's Longhouse. The two guards posted outside gave the woman one look and let her pass into the hall. The steward strode forward to speak with her, but after seeing her mannerisms remained silent. The Jarl's guards' hands dropped to their sword hilts in an instant, ready to spring into action; the Companion had no interest in them, her goal was the dungeon.

Not a single attempt was made to delay her purpose as she headed down the stairs to the cells. The air grew stale and damp; the walls slowly turned to stone. She continued both down and forward, moving towards the rear of the longhouse.

Before the large oaken door, separating the rest of the structure from the longhouse, stood the jailer. He was more barrel than man; squat, bald and heavily built. A large dark beard covered his doughy face, matching perfectly the scowl he wore like armor. His actual armor was made from crudely boiled leather, clearly more for show than actual efficiency. The steel mace he wore on his belt seemed far more functional.

Crossing his bear-like arms across his chest, he looked her up and down. "So you want to see the prisoner eh?"

"Yes." Clearly, there wasn't more than one.

He shook his head. "Mind your hands. He's a slippery one; don't like him." Fishing around in the pouch on his belt for a moment, the jailer withdrew a brass key in his beefy hands. Fitting in into the door's lock, he jiggled it for a moment, then threw the door wide open. A damp chill rushed out of the door as if sensing freedom and fleeing.

The cell block was unpleasant. On either side of the narrow walkway a few cramped cells stood empty, though still stiflingly small. Damp straw littered the cobblestone floor both within cells and on walkway. The darkness of the dungeon hung down like a smothering cloak, shattered only by the light streaming in from the jailer's chambers and a single sun-slit above the cell directly across from her; he cell than housed the prisoner.

In the span of a few short minutes, Aela the Huntress, companion, warrior and free woman, stood on the opposite side of the bars from Sinding, farmer, monster and captive. The man was so scrawny, Aela almost mistook him for a scarecrow at first, a thick stubble covered the portions of his face not blacked with dirt. His dark eyes held a wild, almost feral look and his chest was covered with strange scars. His nose was almost snout-like and his remaining teeth were notably pointed, though yellowed from lack of care. The Companion noticed a hunk of cheese and crust of bread remaining in the cell's corner, uneaten. The cell itself was like all the others, save for the small grate in the ceiling above, casting a pitiful stream of light into the damp little room.

Sindring looked up at her from his perch on the floor, taking her in with an unnerving steely gaze. He didn't seem to blink. "Do I know you?" His voice came out in a croak, like a dry bull frog. He shifted from his seat on the floor to his feet, striding forward into the beam of light. The cell wasn't very large; it was dark and dank, smelling more like a privy than anything. This close to her face, Aela could smell him, a mask of sweat, fear and animal musk.

The Companion shook her head. "No. But I know you, werewolf."

Sindring's expression didn't change. Instead, he sniffed the air several times before looking at her directly. "It seems I know a little bit more about you than you think." He gripped the bars separating the two of them, sniffing again. "Oh yes," he almost giggled. "How very interesting."

"Answer my question," the woman commanded, voice cold, purposely ignoring his observation. "Why did you do it?" She looked him up and down. "You don't seem feral to me."

_If you were feral I would have killed you already._

Sindring gave a dry and disturbing laugh before turning away from the bars. He sat back down, crossed-legged, in the little patch of light at the cell's center. "I'm cursed." It was a simple admission, so lacking in the flair many employed with that announcement. "I am, as you previously stated, a werewolf. One of many, in fact." He looked right at her before continuing. "As long as I can remember I've been one. Was I born that way or bit as a boy?" He held out his arms in a questioning gesture. "I have no answers for you. Also, as long as I can remember, I've had problems controlling my transformations." He snapped his weathered, bony fingers together sharply, "Sometimes I'd just transform; without warning or reason. It was utterly terrifying; total loss of control at any moment. I knew someday I'd kill someone during one of these transformations. So..." he shook his head sadly. "I stole a Daedric artifact from one of the wilderness cults, the ring of Hircine," he laughed madly, hugging his knees to his chest. "I thought it would perhaps allow me to control myself." He was quiet, confessions hanging in the air as he rocked back and forth.

"I was wrong, incredibly so. Evidently, Hircine didn't much care for my theft and cursed the ring." He reached into the tattered pocket in the rags he wore and held a ring out in his grubby hand. Even in those filthy conditions it sparkled with an unnatural light. It was made of polished brass, with a snarling wolf's head in the center.

"Now, my transformations are even more rapid, and frequent. I have no recollections at all of my actions during those incidents, and nearly no power to fight the effects. I become a true monster."

He placed the ring back in his pocket, resting his chin in his hands. "Are you here to kill me or help me?" He asked, words brutally honest, striking like a sword.

"That depends." She responded without flair, slowly clenching and relaxing her left hand. The leather of her fingerless gauntlets groaned with each motion.

"On what?"

"Whether I think you deserve help."

He looked her in the eyes and asked simply. "What gives you the right to determine my fate?" He leaned backward, face partially hidden in the shadows.

"Hircine." Her responses were becoming more and more clip, as she became less and less comfortable with the conversation.

"Is that so?" He shook his head, clearly doubting her words. "Well," he stated, shifting slightly in his seat. "In case you do decide to help me; I need to purify this ring." He looked upward, gazing out of the skylight in his cell. "I have heard, in the surrounding forests, there is a white stag. Slaying this great beast will please Hircine greatly. Once I've pleased him, perhaps he will grant me the peace I seek." He shook his head somberly, gazing at the floor. "Or, perhaps he will call a Wild Hunt down on my head. He's a fickle lord."

Aela did not respond. Instead, she stood there, gazing at the pathetic figure in the cell. A thousand thoughts fought for control as she considered every possible option before her. Hircine had whispered to her of this renegade creature, spoken of a need to deal with it, but how? Would she put the silver-tipped arrow in his forehead? Or aid him in his quest to be free of the curse.

She looked at him through the bars and wondered. Her own life danced by, mentally switching her places with his. Fate's decision was hanging in the balance.

However, fate decided to up the stakes.

Suddenly, Sindring began clawing at his throat. He hunched over, growling like he was about to vomit; a horrific cracking noise began echoing through the cell as the man's bones began altering. Fur began springing out of his skin as his shirt ripped itself to pieces. His fingernails elongated, rapidly transforming into claws. His head morphing horrifyingly a long snout sprouting outward of his face. A large busy tail sprouted outward; perhaps the most bizarre moment of his transition.

Without hesitation, Aela yanked her bow from her back and drew one of the silver arrows. Even as she notched it, the beast was moving. Almost faster than the eye could follow, he leaped, mid-transformation, straight upward. The Huntress' arrow clattered against the far wall, missing the blurring werewolf by hairs. Even as she drew a second, a ear-jarring metallic shriek accompanied by falling rubble proved her brief thought correct. Sindring had torn the grate out of the ceiling and, most likely, squeezed out of it.

Not pausing to allow the jailer to arrive, Aela dashed up the stairs, through the longhouse, bow in hand. Several of the guardsmen, realizing that something was afoot, followed closely behind her, drawing steel as they went.

The huntress kicked the longhouse door open, weapon in hand, dashing into the streets in her attempt to stop the fleeing man-beast. Companion twisted towards the longhouse roof, aiming her bow upward. She caught a brief glimpse of Sindring's hairy figure, bounding impossibly fast across the roof, towards the forest. Knowing she'd never hit the fast-moving beast from the ground at her angel, she held back the shot.

Returning the arrow to its place in her quiver, the woman pondered her next step. _What was it Sindring said? A white stag?_

Still not delaying, Aela headed off towards the woods herself. She had a beast to bring down.

* * *

><p>"Why are we riding towards this far away shrine again?" Lydia asked Hammel with just a degree of impatience. "Why aren't we using the perfectly good temple in Whiterun?" She'd been quietly ridding alongside him for the past while, not speaking, but clearly unhappy. The road to Winterhold from Whiterun was pleasant enough for Hammel, with his horse moving at a pace too slow to jostle his still healing ribs. Both riders were wrapped in fur cloaks, enhancing their innate Nordic resistance to the frost to comfortable levels. Winterhold had its name for a reason and Hammel wanted to be prepared.<p>

"Because," the newest Companion answered without flair, "Azura is called the Mistress of Fate for a reason. This shrine is her center of worship in Skyrim. With so much change in my life and around me, I need guidance."

"So you go to a Daedric Princess," Lydia snorted. "Did you try Talos first?"

"I did." He responded. "But such visions are not usually his way. Action is more important." He gazed down the road ahead, looking for other signs of life. Save him and his housecarl, there were none. Snow began falling gently from the gray skies above, a sure sign they were heading in the right direction.

He thought back to the offer Skjor had presented that morning. Once he recovered sufficiently, Hammel could make an attempt to join the inner circle. It was a proud moment, one for which he was eternally grateful. However, the idea of being Dragonborn still held a grip on his mind, bouncing around in his subconsciousness. He was unsure of his future, wondering about what path to take, where to focus his attentions, to whom to give his loyalties.

Fortunately, he heard about a shrine Skyrim's Dunmer had built to Azura, up in the mountains near Winterhold. Hoping his patron would offer him a vision, Hammel, accompanied by his housecarl, began the journey to visit it. Lydia had made no attempt to disguise her feelings towards the subject. She'd been courteous enough towards him over the past day or so, but never once hid her opinion or withheld comments on anything. If she thought his idea was foolish she told him; if she thought he was being an ass, she also let him know. Hopefully, she'd give the same openness of opinion when he had a good idea.

At first, Hammel wondered if her snarking would bother him, but found it did not. He was never one for a back-side kisser or a soulless sycophant. He was pleased with her backbone and mostly glad for her opinions.

"Where does a Nord warrior become a fervent worshiper of Azura, my Thane?" Lydia asked casually, looking about the road and spotting nothing of interest, "...since we are going to be in each others company for the foreseeable future."

Hammel reached upward and grasped the dragon's tooth between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it casually. Beneath it, also around his neck, were his amulet of Talos and his symbol of Azura, marking his affiliation for all the world to see. "When my mother was just a little girl," he began, voice drifting off with the wind, "she loved the night sky; the stars, the moons." He became very reflective, not looking at his housecarl, instead, gazing off at nothing. "She was from Morrowind originally. A slave born in a land not her own, surrounded by people who were not Nords. During her early years several of Azura's worshipers showed my mother some kindness and began teaching her the Queen of Dawn's ways." He shook his head sadly, his gaze glassing over. Gripping the reigns tighter, Hammel pressed onward, physically and metaphorically.

"As a slave with nothing, the idea that there was someone watching over the threads of fate, controlling destinies and protecting her faithful, struck a chord with Elliana, my mother. That's when she became a follower."

Gripping his own amulet of Azura with a firm hand, clutching it for emotional support, Hammel half expected Lydia to make a comment. Surprisingly, the woman did not. She listened with an almost sympathetic look on her pretty face.

Continuing on with his story, the Nord's attention remained ahead. "I don't know the details, but at some point, her owner's mansion was attacked by rivals. During the chaos that ensued, she managed to escape. She bought passage to Solstheim with what little goods she'd looted during the attack and spent some time on that island. Eventually, someone to whom I owe a great debt, took pity on my mother and paid for her passage back to Skyrim. I have no face to put with the name, but, if Azura wills, they will one day know my gratitude."

"My father said once that random acts of kindness have repercussions we never know; they define us more than our other actions." Lydia's philosophical statement momentarily surprised Hammel. He hadn't expected deeper concepts to even register with a warrior like her.

_That's a little arrogant of me, come to think of it. I think of these things all the time, why can't she? Pompous ass._

"Then your father was very wise, and correct." The ex-Legionnaire responded with a slight smile, still not loosening his grip on his personal totem. "When my mother finally arrived in Solitude she had nothing. So, being a young woman with no real education, she did the only thing she could to support herself. Sometime later, I was born, with no knowledge of which of my mothers clients fathered me. You can fill in the details."

He blazed through the rest of his story, not pausing for breath or to think. The memories were far too painful to dwell upon. "Anyways, she taught me all she could, raised me, looked after me, and treated me right. I had a decent life everything considered. One day, she was murdered by a client, who, as far as I know, has never been charged with anything. After that, I had to live on the street, fighting for survival. Until the Legion took me in and made something out of me." He paused, gathering his thoughts.

"Why do I cling to Azura? Because she clung to me. When my mother was gone and I was freezing my ass off in the gutter of an unsympathetic town I could feel her, watching me. That's your answer."

He turned to face her, "I'm sorry. That got out of hand." He looked back out towards the horizon, trying to flee from his memories into it. "I've never told anyone that much about me."

"Thank you for trusting me, my Thane." His housecarl's tone lacked even a hint of sarcasm. She sounded almost sorry for him. The pair rode on in awkward silence for a few miles before Lydia broke the ice. "For a whore's son, you've done quite well for yourself."

Hammel chuckled darkly. "Well Lydia, thanks for that."

* * *

><p>The already chilly breeze seemed to grow colder at his presence. The hungry wolf in the brush scampered away at the sight of him, preferring to starve than die. An almost physical sense of evil radiated from his shoulders; Daedra practically lived in his shadow.<p>

His name was Claudius Nero, and he would soon make his presence known.

He was a tall man, broad shouldered and well-muscled, with a small yet proud black mustache on his lip. His hair was cut short and straight, darker than a starless night; he born no notable markings save one long, thin dueling scar upon his cheek. His eyes were a dark brown and seemed to hold countless unknowable secrets. He was exceptionally pale, with a hawk like nose and strong chin.

Clad in dark, unscathed ebony mail that flowed with his body's movements like a river and gave off a cloud of green fog when he willed, Claudius was clearly no stranger to battle. Attached to the horse's saddle was a strange helmet, made from carefully worked steel to resemble a man's face, with two large minotaur-like horns sprouting from its head. On his waist sat a horrifically brutal looking mace, spikes protruding from all angles, seemingly dripping with fresh blood. Strapped onto his back was a shield of Dwemer make, yet clearly more than a simple tool, crackling with arcane energy and giving off an feeling of age, as if that shield had seen many more things than any mortal on Tamriel's surface.

His whole being seemed to be coiled like a serpent, ready at any moment to strike his enemies down without hesitation. He rode on silently towards Dawnstar, towards his next objective with the precision of a Dwarven robot. He ignored the woman behind him, ignored her praises and admiration and pointless flirtations. He'd already gotten what he needed from her, if she insisted on following him about he would find use for her sorcery and blade.

Eola was a Breton, pretty enough he supposed, with stringy brown hair that she tied into a messy bun. She was slight, short and would have given off an air of vulnerability save for two things. The first was her eyes; one was perfectly functional, though the dark blue orb danced with the flames of madness, the other was a milky white blob, permanently damaged in some battle long forgotten. The scars of that wound were covered in dark purple war paint giving her a vicious look, like she was an underdog scrapper, not to be trifled with.

The other thing unsettling about her, was her teeth; they were stained yellow by countless horrific meals. Her breath constantly smelled like corpses and fresh earth. Then again, Claudius knew all about that; he wore her ring after all.

"Do you have a plan, champion of Namira?" Her voice was like silk, seductive and smooth, promising pleasure and peace. But Claudius knew better, he'd tasted her kisses, experienced her bed. There was no peace to be found in the arms of the cannibal, and both knew it.

Granted, there was none to be found within him either. He was not a pleasant man, not in the slightest.

"I do." He responded firmly, reaching down to grasp his patron's mace in an iron grip. The ring of Namira sent its deathly chill even through his glove, filling his limbs with an unearthly stamina. It would be easy to remove the woman's head from her body, one quick swing of his mace and she'd slump. But Nero was not a patron of Mehrunes Dagon, he was not a man of destruction for its own sake, he had more cunning than that. She was a useful pawn on his path to power, as long as she remained loyal.

"May I hear it, champion?" She rolled the question off her tongue like a maiden begging for a boy's love, yet with more resolve hidden in her words than one could imagine. She was a dangerous beast, unpredictable and savage, just as quick to roast a man alive with the intricately carved staff slung on her back as speak with him. Yet Claudius did not fear her. Claudius did not fear any mortal.

"In time." He responded casually, spurring his horse onward towards the city. Outright destruction would please Dagon, even Eola in some sense, though he'd expected more subtlety from an agent of Namira. Though the Daedra worshiper called him champion because of his actions in Markarth, he did not directly serve the Mistress of Decay any more than he served Clavicus Vile, or Boethia. He paid homage to Molag Bahl, true, but in the way the Daedric Prince would find most compelling, by acquiring power. Daedric artifacts were imbued with that power, physical manifestations of unholy might.

Unholy might he would possess.

The pair of riders thundered on, drawing closer to the unsuspecting town and onward towards a dark destiny, one Claudius Nero intended to grasp with both hands.

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><p>AN: Thanks for all the continued support guys! Particularly with the long absence between chapters. I'd like to get the next one up sooner, but quality is always before quantity. Cheers!<p> 


	16. A Prophecy Foretold

AN: Writer's block struck me hard, followed by collage and papers. Rest assure, though updates will be slow they will continue. This project is not, nor will ever be, abandoned. Now. Onto the good stuff!

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><p><strong>Chapter 16<strong>

**A Prophecy Foretold**

"_It amuses me how vague most prophets are. If they truly see the future why not make it plain?"-Quote from "Quogoth gro-Baltaag" From the play "Kolgan's Hunts", act 3 scene 1. Written by Alegia Tubali, 3E 357. First preformed 3E 361._

With a long-match, she lit the candles of fate, their tiny flames burning stubbornly despite the freezing chill resting in the air around it. The almost invisible trail of smoke left behind blended with the gently falling snow. Each of the seven candles rested perfectly on the alter, flickering away in the early morning darkness.

Holding the match up to slate-gray lips, with one quick breath, the priestess snuffed the flame out. Placing it in a small wicker basket alongside its burned out brethren, Araena, last remaining priestess of Azura in Skyrim, pulled her violet robe tighter. Though the garment appeared simple, and rightly so considering her station, it was well made and maintained. Lined with soft rabbit fur, the robes proved excellent defense against Skyrim's snows. A pair of handsome leather gloves provided some protection for her fingers and soft buckskin boots did the same for her feet.

Araena was a Dunmer. Not quite as young as she'd once been, lines of age were beginning to determinedly work their way across her face. She had never been pretty, merely average of face, and age certainly hadn't improved her looks. Her hair, which hung long and free down her back, was merely darker gray, not a pure silver or white like some of her childhood friends. Her hands, when not hidden behind those gloves, were calloused from hard work and hours spent outdoors. Her knees were scrapped from constant prayer, her frame thin from lack of proper diet. The mountain didn't present her with much in the way of bounty and every trip to Dawn Star was carefully monitored. She could not leave the shrine unattended for too long, lest bandits or vagabonds desecrate her goddess' resting place.

Like patches of night, her eyes were the only truly exceptional thing about her. The dark orbs conveyed warmth or anger whenever it suited her, in equally obvious amounts. Overall, she seemed an underwhelming person, just one more face in the crowd. Yet that was far from the truth. A sense of divine power radiated from her person; a clear sign of favor from the Daedra she'd served faithfully for so long.

Araena cared not for her appearance. She lived a solitary life, working alone with only the goddess and occasional pilgrim for company. The pilgrims were becoming fewer in number, turning from a flood, to a stream, to a trickle and finally nothing at all.

Some days she wondered; What would become of the shrine when her died? What would her purpose be when none remained to hear her prophecies? But those days of doubt were few; she had faith. Azura spoke to her and gave her strength and comfort. She was content with that.

The Dark Elf sank to her knees before the alter, inhaling the sweet smoke drifting off the candles, feeling the snow on her face. She gazed up at the massive stone statue before her, chiseled from the mountain itself. Thousands of faithful Dunmer had shaped it lovingly, putting back and heart into its construction. The statue depicted the Lady of Mysteries, in all her grace and power, standing watch over her faithful. In one of her outstretched hands sat the crescent moon and in the other, the rising sun. Her gown seemed to fall eternally down the mountainside, becoming part of the cliff face she called home. It was a perfect work, its likes never seen elsewhere, towering far above similar monuments to gods and daedra, dwarfing even many a temple. It saddened the priestess to think of all the work done, and yet so few saw it.

Folding hands and closing her midnight eyes, the Dunmer began her morning supplication. The hood of her velvet robes rested at her shoulders, hair dancing across her neck with the wind. The sweet smell of incense filled her senses as the smoke blew past her face. "Azura," she began reverently. "Lady of Mystery, Mother of Dawn, Mistress of fate, hear my prayers."

It seemed Azura did.

Occasionally, at the goddess' discretion, Araena was blessed with a vision. Her prophesies were never proven false and now it seemed time to bare witness to another.

Images assaulted her brain, a poorly shaved, hobbling nord, a woman with long dark hair clad in iron plate, a fellow dunmer, dressed in the robes of a priest. The most sacred of Azura's artifacts, Azura's star, resting in the hands of a human. A dragon roaring, an arrow sailing through the sky.

The jumble of smells, sights and sounds was accompanied by a voice as sweet as honey, smooth as silk and dusky as smoke; not quite human, not quite elven, not quite mortal, not quite immortal. "My faithful servant, hear me now. This Nord is my champion, an agent of fate itself. He must be pointed along the path to my Star. You will know where to send him. You must send him, for through him, the whims of fate must be accommodated. He will speak to me, when he does I will show him what I've shown you."

As suddenly as the vision had begun it ended. Araena's head throbbed between the hands that clutched it. She was shuddering slightly as sweat poured down her body despite the chill in the air. She'd felt the power of the daedric princess before and found each visit just as draining. Leaning against the alter, body wracked with fatigue, sucking air into her lungs greedily, the priestess slowly regained her composure.

"The Star?" She asked the wind and mountaintop. "But the Star is lost..." She shook her head, chastising herself for the momentary lapse in faith. Azura controlled the fates of all men and mer; surely finding her own sacred artifact was nothing to her.

Pulling her hood back over her pointed ears, the priestess began her daily meditations and hymns. Just because something exciting was going to happen there was no reason to abandon her daily routine.

Araena composed her cloak and knelt once again before the alter. When this Nord arrived, she would be ready.

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><p>Clob didn't know what to expect when Hulda had pointed him in the direction of mercenary help. It certainly wasn't what he saw before him. He'd been directed to meet his potential allies by the Whiterun stables, outside the city, at dusk. He'd agreed to meet them, and thus here he was, slightly surprised by them.<p>

They were two; so mismatched he could hardly believe they were partners. Certainly Tamriel had beheld stranger couples before, but the son of Grogork most certainly hadn't.

The one on the left was a woman, Breton judging by her complexion. She was very short, her head barely up to Clob's underarm, with snow white hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and tied with a simple strip of leather. The portions of her face not covered with winding vine tattoos were obviously doughy. Her cheeks were plump and ruddy, looking more like they belong to an elderly grandmother than a warrior. She had an equally plump nose, set before a pair of violet eyes staring suspiciously at him.

The rest of her physique was likewise contradictory. This short woman was quite fat in the torso and shoulders, with obviously strong arms and legs. Her feet were bare, seemingly indifferent towards the oncoming winter.

The woman's sturdy arms were crossed across a heavy steel breastplate. The darkened steel belonged to a well maintained set. It was gouged and scarred, but clearly functional and looked so heavy Clob was shocked she could wear it. Resting atop her backpack was a helmet in the shape of a snarling wolf's head, battered and scrapped from combat.

A waraxe of Orcish make rested on her belt, its grip worn from the constant grasp of a hand. A shield, that seemed more akin to a steel barn door than an actual shield, took up most of her back A wolf was painted elegantly across its surface in white. Unlike the rest of her equipment, the shield was remarkably clean, though still heavily pitted and scarred. Her wolf sigil was still fresh, clearly having been retouched whenever it saw damage.

She wore an untrustworthy gaze, wielding it like a weapon. Looking at Clob like she expected him to rob her, she gave him an unexplainable pang of guilt, though he'd certainly done nothing to her personally.

_ Given the animosity between our people, she is intelligent not to trust me._

Her companion was her perfect opposite. Unlike the woman, he was an Orc, tall even among orsimer. Everywhere she was fat or muscled he was lanky and rippling, his stance suggesting cat-like agility. He was an exceptionally pale shade of green, suggesting some mixed blood in his heritage. His greasy black hair was shaved down to a scalp cut, the remaining short tuft of hair guarding his head like a skull cap. His eyes were an unexceptional yellow and his nose oddly down-turned and hawk-like, giving it a very human appearance. The tusk on the right side of his mouth was broken off, leaving a jagged stump resting in its place.

His left hand was stroking the head of an ancient Dwemer mace gently, as a subtle warning. It was then that Clob noticed the other Orc was missing the last three fingers of that hand, hacked brutally off in some scrap long past.

His armor was a patchwork collection of furs and pelts, banded together almost randomly with belts and straps of leather. It was decorated in various places with bones, scalps and other trophies from both man and beast. Like the woman, he also carried a shield, though his was much smaller; a buckler made from thick pine. It bore no sigil, save a splatter of long dried blood decorating the ugly spike resting at the buckler's center.

Clob was unsure of himself, dropping subtly backward into a more combat friendly stance. His grip on the quarterstaff tightened, knuckles whitening. He held no doubt of his skill with the arcane, but it never hurt to be prepared. If these two were as talented as Hulda claimed, they'd have slain a few mages in their careers.

Still, if they were recommended by the tavern-keeper it was very unlikely they'd attempt to rob him, but security dictated he be cautious initially.

"You must be him." The Orc spoke, his voice rumbling across the field. It was a gravely voice, but not unkind.

Clob nodded his affirmative. "Aye, I am him."

The woman looked him up and down, appraising him like a farmer would a slab of beef. She raised her snow-colored eyebrows. "Hulda said you needed some trustworthy help for a personal quest. She didn't tell us what it was."

"That is because I did not tell her." Clob responded casually, trying to read the two mercenaries. They were obviously close, judging by the familiarity of their speech and stance. They were covering the other's flanks, without a word. Either could leap in at a moment with shield and weapon in hand if the other needed it. This unspoken loyalty was a good sign; while it wouldn't transfer to him over night, at least the idea existed in their minds. A comforting start to a potentially worthwhile partnership, hopefully the two would be as skilled in combat as Greymist.

"It is a matter of personal and family honor," Clob eluded, nodding towards the Orc with the human nose. "He would understand."

The Breton rolled her eyes. "I've been around enough Orcs to understand the whole honor bit. If you don't want to clarify, I won't probe." She crossed her arms across the dulled breastplate she wore, gripping each elbow with the opposite hand. "But I have a few requirements before we sign up on your mission of pride."

The woman held up a hand, counting off on her fingers with each point made. "First, half up front. That's non-negotiation-able. Secondly, we need clarification on who or what we'll be fighting. Third, if anything additional comes up that we aren't ready for, we'll expect a raise pertaining to the situation. Fourth, we need to know where we're headed, and whether it will be safe upon arrival or not."

Her Orc compatriot nodded silently to each point, not removing his eyes from Clob as she spoke. He seemed content to let her lead in the negotiation, with a slightly bored look implying he'd heard this exact spiel before many a time.

"Finally, what actions my companion and I may preform while not on duty, that are not illegal, are our business. Likewise, your actions will not be judged. Are we clear?"

The terms seemed fitting to Clob. He'd expected no less from any competent mercenary. "Agreed." He held out an unsullied hand to shake. The short woman took it in a surprisingly strong grip and shook it firmly.

"I'm Rosie Bravour, this is my...friend." The look that flashed past her eyes gave Clob momentary pause, before she pressed on like nothing had happened. "He goes by Burz gro-Valkaz."

Now that name sounded very familiar. "Your father, Valkaz?" The mage inquired looking directly at Rosie's Orc. "Was he the son of Barz gro-Valka? Who accompanied the Champion of Cyrodil against Dagon?"

Burz looked momentarily taken aback. After a moment of staring he slowly nodded. "That is correct. My grandfather fought with Tharafin Odmar during the Oblivion Crisis. How did you determine that?"

"I've read my share of books." Clob smirked, his beard emphasizing the movements. "Besides, you clearly have some touches of human blood. Not many Orcs willingly tied themselves down to humans. And of those who did, none are so famous as your grandfather."

"We can swap family trees later," Rosie interrupted before Burz could respond. "There will time for that talk later. Right now, tell us where we're headed."

Reaching back into one of his satchels, the Orsimer mage withdrew a sack of coins and a tattered old map. Tossing the coin purse at Rosie, the Orc began to unfurl his parchment. As the woman caught it in one hand he began speaking. "This map marks the fastest route to the Orcish stronghold of Largashbur. I have personal business there. Your assignment is to provide me with aid as we journey there, and help me thereafter in whatever violence may occur. Once my quest ends, for good or ill, you will receive a second purse of gold. I trust that amount is acceptable?"

The widening in Rosie's eyes as she opened the small hide bag suggested that it was. "We're yours to command, Clobnak."

The mage clasped his hands together around his quarterstaff. "Excellent. Fetch your horses. We begin ridding immediately!"

As his two new employees headed towards their own stabled horses without hesitation, Clobnak, son of Grogork, took a moment to reflect.

_It's been a quest long delayed. Far too long. Soon, honor will be restored. Soon, justice will be done or I will die trying._

The mage smiled, his unscarred face lighting up slightly. It was good to finally begin.

* * *

><p><em>The woman in the dark robes strode forward. Her face was hidden beneath a hood, but somehow Lianna knew this mysterious figure held nothing but contempt for her. Clutched in the stranger's hand was a sword of elvish make, dripping a constant stream of blood, causing neither rust on the blade nor drying. Other figures, golden in color, stood in her wake but did not draw near.<em>

_ Lianna was paralyzed, feet rooted to the ground as she watched in horror. Standing protectively in front of the Stormcloak was an Altmer man. He looked so familiar it made her heart ache, yet she couldn't remember why. His hair was long and golden, with a longsword similar to the woman's clutched in his hands. His silver chain was torn, his forest green cloak tattered. Blood flowed from various wounds like a waterfall. _

_ All around them was a forest, so dark it blotted out the sunlight. The trees closed in like a hoard of menacing creatures, their branches outstretched like so many grasping fingers. She was afraid of this place, but couldn't remember why. The idea haunted her, tormented her. She'd been here before, she knew it._

_ The elf with the sword slashed valiantly, trying to hold the approaching figure back, but she came on relentlessly. Straining against herself, Lianna tried to force her feet free, to dash forward and help him, but she remained helpless. She tried screaming, crying out for help, but nothing escape from her throat. Her arms remained motionless when she attempted casting a spell and her eyes would not close, not matter how she tried to shut them._

_ It happened in a blur. One minute the Altmer was fighting valiantly, the next he was staggering backward, a bloody gash in his chest from where the woman had mortally wounded him. As the elf turned around to face Lianna, he suddenly morphed, becoming the thing that hurt her to see;_

_ Carver Wolfheart, her father. _

_ He looked at her with his dieing expression, then slumped to the forest floor._

Lianna sat straight up in bed gasping for breath. Her whole body shook with exhaustion, the tips of her ears quivering as she sucked in Windhelm's cool night air. The bed all around her was soaked in sweat, with plenty more dripping off her head and down her body.

Throwing off the blankets, Lianna practically leaped out of her husband's arms. Striding naked across the room, she went directly to the bedroom's window and flung it open. Gripping the windowsill like a lifeline, the Stormcloak leaned out over the city.

A gently wind blew the falling snowflakes against her skin, tossed her hair about, but could not cool her. At this point she couldn't tell if the salt she was tasting was from the sweat rushing down her face, or the tears she knew she was crying.

"Darling?" Ralof's words were slurred as he rolled about in their bed, rubbing a hand through his eyes. "What's wrong?"

She contemplated lying to him. For just a moment the idea of falling back on "I'm fine," seemed very appealing. But this was Ralof and he'd sniff out her deception in a heartbeat. Besides, she was too frightened to care.

"I had a nightmare." She didn't look back at him, instead tightening her grip on the windowsill and staring outward.

It was a small home they owned, paid for with a rebel's salary. Though it was cramped at points, the view was spectacular. Windhelm's market district was spread below them like a carpet. Even now she could see the torches burning in their sconces as the smithy began working his fire for the day's customers. Two Stormcloak's patrolled the streets and, if not for their helms, Lianna probably could have named both.

"Was it the same one as last time?" His voice was clearly concerned, but not patronizing. She could imagine the concern crossing his handsome features. Her husband was a gentle man, and the sight of anyone suffering, particularly his "Frost Thistle"(check and make sure that's the actual alchemy component) filled his heart with grief.

"Worse." She wrapped her arms around her torso and hugged them close. The temperature was finally starting to affect her, causing the overheated elf to shiver. "This time I saw him die." Her voice cracked with the final two words. Daddy, with his gaze frozen forever as he died. And her not being able to do anything about it.

She felt Ralof embrace her from behind, pulling her close. His beard tickled her neck as he kissed her cheek tenderly. His arms encircled her midriff, gripping her tightly.

The stoic elf let herself go in her husband's strong embrace. Without shame she began crying bitterly, spinning around and burying her head in his shoulder. He held her as if she was made from blown glass, rocking her back and forth softly.

"Your father's death wasn't your fault," he told her softly, stroking her midnight hair with a free hand. "You did all you could."

She didn't answer him, instead she desperately fought to control herself. Ralof didn't speak again, content to hold her.

At that moment, she was eternally grateful to the gods for giving him to her, he was there. When everyone else had been taken from her, he'd remained. She prayed nothing would ever change that.

* * *

><p>The stag was truly a magnificent beast. Tracking it hadn't been particularly challenging, but slaying it was proving something else entirely. Running like the wind, the animal led Aela on a merry chase through most of the night, never seeming to tire, never once faltering. With her unnatural stamina, she managed to keep it in her sights, even firing off an arrow at one point. But it was too far for accuracy and the stag danced nimbly away from the shaft.<p>

It was time for a new strategy, so she dropped out of the creature's sight, following instead by scent. A few well placed leaps and a shimmy raised her from the forest floor to the tree branches above, granting a much better view. Leaping from branch to branch with the practiced skill of one who'd spent countless years in the forest, the Huntress maintained an easy stride, breezing past ground-based obstacles in near perfect silence. Her ebony bow rested comfortably on her back, easily within reach, her quiver aligned for maximum efficiency. When the shot presented itself, and it would, Aela would take it.

From her current perch, crouched on a particularly sturdy limb belonging to a pine tree, the Huntress watched her prey. Just beyond an arrow's flight, looking around nervously, was the white stag. She expected to cut him off, but not this efficiently. She'd overestimated and was now too far forward to make a clear shot.

So she waited, silently, still, hardly daring to breath, waiting for the anxious creature to take half a dozen steps. If he entered her killing zone she could take him down, in Hircine's name, with a single arrow; she knew her own capabilities.

But the stag was clever and cautious. Judging by the size of its horns, it was a worthy prize for any big game hunter; many winters old. A creature like that didn't survive this long by taking chances.

The buck sniffed the air cautiously, glancing about the forest, almost as if he knew she was there. Aela was motionless save for her crimson hair dancing slightly in the wind. She was composed; locked in place.

The stag took a cautious step forward, placing one hoof out into the open. Aela didn't flinch. Several more steps followed suit, the buck moving closer, ever closer, to her killing zone.

Reaching her hand back cautiously, the huntress took up her bow. With equal silence, she withdrew a single ebony-headed arrow. Notching it effortlessly, she maintained her silent stillness.

The buck moved forward closer still, in range for an arrow but not the accuracy she longed for. So she waited. A gently breeze blew by, carrying the stag's scent with it. He was nervous, that much was plain.

Yet despite the beast's caution, it had but two choices, advance or retreat. It chose the former. Slowly, one foot at a time, the stag advanced. As it moved further into the clearing, the Huntress prepared.

Shutting one eye for accuracy, she drew the bowstring back to her ear, holding the shot. She waited for three more steps...two more...one.

Exhaling with the release of the arrow, she watched its deadly flight. The shaft flew through the air, the snapping of the bowstring cracking unnaturally loud in the stillness of the nighttime air. The stag looked upward, seeing the arrow for just a split-second before impact.

The ebony head bit clean through the deer's flank, puncturing it's heart. The buck made a single pitiful squeak and collapsed in a heap. She felt its life force leaving, saw the pool of blood growing from its rapidly cooling form and knew her task was nearly done.

Yet no one who loved Skyrim's nature, who had spent so much time among its trees and mountains, could simply take an animal's life. Its sacrifice must be honored.

Returning her bow to its place, Aela released a single breath through the nose, then leaped from the tree. Crunching leaves and twigs softly under heavy boots and feeling dirt beneath the palm she'd held out for balance, the Companion landed gracefully. Pushing herself straight, her hand dropped for the pelting knife on her belt; she'd bring something back with her.

Approaching the stag almost reverently, Aela knelt in the dirt before it. A more poetic man would have said something profound; her mother, a prayer of some sort. Aela was not poetic, nor was she her mother.

With a nod of gratitude, she plugged the blade into the beast's flank.

Almost the instant she did so, an ethereal voice rang out as clearly as if the invisible speaker had been standing next to her. "Well done hunter!"

She leaped back with cat-like reflexes, leaving her pelting blade in the stag's corpse, drawing her dagger with the now free hand. Rising out from the beast's corpse was a ghostly figure. He was like a man, and yet, somehow more savage. His features were fleeting, making him impossible to describe, even as she gazed upon him. He clutched a mighty spear in one hand, a horn of mead in the other. Clad from head to toe in fur and skins, not a single thing on his body could not be found in the savage wilds; upon his head rested a helm made of hide and antlers, giving him a striking resemblance to the stag she'd only just slain. Though his physical features were fleeting she could tell he was pleased. One thing was certain, he was no specter. There was only one being he could be.

Aela knelt before him, stabbing the point of her dagger into the soft dirt. Pressing her forehead against the pommel of the dagger the green-eyed huntress spoke four words. "Thank you, Lord Hircine."

The Daedra bid her rise with a wave of his mead horn, the necklace of bone he wore rattling as he did so. "You have slain the white stag, after a worthy hunt! My favor is upon you." He raised the horn in toast, before taking a slight sip from it. "Now, a task I ask of my faithful. Do so, and you shall be rewarded." He did not wait for her response before continuing on with his grandiose speech. "You will head to Bloated Man's Grotto, I will plant in your mind the path to take. There, there is a werewolf, a pathetic creature named Sindrig. He was too weak to rule himself and tried to steal from me. Me! A Daedric Lord!"

His anger seethed forward, nearly boiling Aela in rage. His hand tightened visibly around the mighty spear and he shook his head furiously. "You understand the laws of the forest. He is weak, he is fearful and he has dared steal from the Lord he claimed to serve. Go there, kill him, bring me his pelt and I will shower you with a gift." He looked away in the distance, as if his gaze was falling upon Sindrig even from the forelock forest path. "Tonight, a Blood Moon rises, a wild hunt begins. Know this, Huntress. You are not the only one to seek my prize. There will be much bloodshed before the night is through."

He smiled wickedly and vanished in an instant as if he'd never been there.

Aela remained kneeling head resting upon her dagger for a few moments longer. She'd seen the face of her lord, mysterious and chaotic though it had been. After her reverence had past she returned to the task of skinning the buck. Let the other hunters have a head start. It mattered not, she would reach Sindrig, she should have killed him in the cell when she'd had the chance. Aela would not make the same mistake twice.

* * *

><p>Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath had hatched a plan. Plans such as this came so very rarely, he had taken a moment to savor its simple brilliance. He knew what they said about him, General Tullius and his toadies, that he was a fool, a coward, an arse-licker.<p>

Well, perhaps those things were true, but what else was true of him? He was but a humble servant to the Empire, a service that granted him his current position as Jarl when his uncle refused to honor the empire that had given him so much. What if he wasn't a great fighter? What if he lacked the so called "honor" his uncle valued above all else. What if martial courage was not his? He had other talents, valuable talents; a worthiness others did not see. Yet it was there, Siddgeir knew it.

He was not a large man, quite the opposite. He was short, thin and not intimidating. The Jarl's skin was pale from excessive time inside and his hands were almost permanently locked around a flagon of mead. The bulk of his robes did little to disguise his general lack of muscle or form. The rapier at his waist seemed thicker than his arms. Siddgeir's fingers were so bedecked with rings it was difficult to find his hands beneath them. Sitting upon his chin was a very thin, very dark beard, looking almost as pompous as the man who wore it. The new Jarl's attempts to grow it had failed so far, but that didn't deter him from purchasing a silver beard case for future use.

He lounged in the high-back chair of Jarl almost lazily, propping his chin upon a clenched fist, a smirk crossing his face from ear to ear. He would win the war in one swift stroke, with a plan no one had attempted. Soon he would earn the respect of the Emperor, the gratitude of the legion and a much larger portion of Skyrim's landscape than he currently possessed.

The late autumn snows had begun falling with more frequency, prompting the roaring fire sitting in the longhouse's center. It was an unimpressive fire in an unimpressive building. After he presented the traitor's head to Queen Elisif on a silver platter he'd have a palace all to his own, with servants to cater to his every whim and a wine-cellar the envy of every drunk in Skyrim.

He would gain all this not with steel or spell, but with paper. Paper and a few smiles.

"Neya, it's a lovely day, is it not?" He asked his steward, turning in his throne slightly to address the Altmer directly.

"Indeed it is, your grace." She responded without hesitation. Neya was an elf, and some sort of mage according to his uncle. It was one of the reasons she was useful to him. Unlike his more obvious bodyguards, she could rip a man to shreds in moments, with a blast of flame or wind, conjured from nothing. Additionally, she had excellent penmanship and a knack for numbers and sums he'd rarely seen in another individual.

Beyond that, she was comely and pleasant to look upon. Meetings and peasants could be so dull. She was always there for him to mentally undress; to lustily gaze at. Not that he was so stupid as to act upon them. Neya was a mage after all.

Like most of her race she had a golden skin tone, with brilliant blonde locks she kept up in an elegant bun. The mage's eyes were a soul piercing blue; her figure shapely and well curved. She had all the personality of a cask of ale; making her an even more perfect assistant.

"It's an excellent day for a few letters, don't you think?" He continued innocently enough, only the smile giving away any hints to his true intentions.

Neya seemed perplexed by his statement, but nodded. "If you say so, your grace." She turned away from the throne momentarily to fetch her writing desk and quill pen.

Siddgeir gave her the time she needed, by slaking his thirst with a mug of mead. It was the finest Black-Briar could produce, fit for a Jarl's lips; unlike the local drink.

_It's a shame we have no brewer's of quality in town. When I acquire my new palace, I will make sure to hire a personal brewer. One capable of more than pouring goat piss in a mug and calling it mead._

The Altmer mage had set up a folding chair before the small desk she kept for such times as Siddgeir's dictations. Dipping her quill in the small pot of ink sitting upon her desk, she looked up at the Jarl with anticipation. "Please begin."

Falkreath's ruler chuckled to himself, at a joke only he seemed to get. "Address the first letter to Tullius. Tell him I can get him the traitor's head." His smile widened all the more. "Address the second letter to Ulfric Stormcloak."

* * *

><p>"My Thane," Lydia protested, following closely behind Hammel. "Wouldn't it be easier to take the horses?"<p>

Hammel Greymist growled between clenched teeth, "No. This is scared ground." He looked down at the sheer, ice covered, steps. "Besides, it wouldn't be safe for them."

The pair had left the horses behind at the bottom of the stone steps carved into the mountain, before beginning the journey upward on foot. Hammel grunted painfully at every step, his breath coming in raspy gasps as his fragile ribcage rattled. The crutches Arcadia had given him were seeing plenty of use, bottoms almost ground to nothing.

Lydia both admired him for his determination and loathed his bullheaded stupidity. Her shield's resting strap cut painfully into her shoulder, between the breastplate's gaps. Her breath came in clouds. With her health currently in perfect condition, she could only imagine how Hammel felt at that moment in his depleted state.

She could feel the statue of Azura staring down on them from its place above. It was, admittedly, a beautiful piece of devotion, but the Housecarl couldn't help but feel uncomfortable in its presence. She bore the Daedra no love, even those as benevolent as Azura. Hammel's story had touched her more than she cared to admit. Talos knew she remembered precious little of her own mother, but she'd been blessed with a strong, noble father who'd loved and cared for her. Yet despite her growing respect for the man, (something she'd be embarrassed to tell him), his fondness for the Daedric princess won not her love.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Hammel slipped and fell to his hands and knees. It was very fast, one moment he was up then next he was trying to push himself back to his feet. "Let me help you, my Thane." Lydia offered, grabbing one of his arms and hauling him to his feet.

He brushed the snow from his shoulders with a weary hand. "Thank you." He muttered grouchily. Being in a weakened state didn't seem to agree with him. Pulling his cloak tighter around his form, the Nord readjusted his grip on the crutches and pressed onward without further complaint.

The statue grew larger as they approach, towering above the small plateau that held Hammel's attention. The alter set before it was humble, simple. On the granite surface burned seven small candles, placed strategically around a purple clothe covering most of the altar's surface. A short distance away a bed roll had been folded up and stacked neatly with a small collection of personal goods.

Kneeling before the altar in silent prayer, hands folded, head bowed, was a dark elf woman clad in simple deep velvet robes. Upon seeing her meditations, Hammel stopped and dropped as elegantly to his knees as he could in his current physical condition. Gazing up lovingly at the massive statue above them, he began prayers of his own.

"I've been awaiting your arrival," the priestess announced in a smooth, soothing voice. "Greymist, faithful of the goddess." She rose, turning to face him in one fluid motion. The edges of her cloak rustled in an almost hypnotizing fashion as she did so. "I am Araena, last priestess of Azura in Skyrim and I am honored by your prescience."

Judging by the look on his face, that wasn't what Hammel expected her to say. "I'm sorry, what?"

The priestess folded her hands within the opposite sleeve of her robes, hiding them from view. "You have found favor with Azura. When she mentions you, it is with fondness."

Dropping to his face before the altar, Hammel responded reverently, "That the Lady of Mysteries would pay me any thought at all is an honor far beyond what I deserve."

Lydia mentally rolled her eyes. Groveling was all well and good, but she doubted a Daedra would be taken in by it.

She was waiting for Araena to respond with some equally eloquently sounding platitude to his statements. However the voice that rang out didn't belong to the priestess. It was certainly a woman's voice, but it didn't belong to the Dunmer. It was smooth and rich, like velvet with an otherworldly power behind it. It came from everywhere and nowhere with a song-like quality to it, like a river flowing downstream over rocks. Hauntingly beautiful, the voice swept over her like a wave, leaving a numbing sensation.

"Hammel," the voice sang out, "You are offered the chance to serve me; to preform a vital task. It will be dangerous, but you are capable. Do you accept this responsibility?"

"Yes." His voice was unbroken, his resolve unwavering.

"My star has been stolen by the cultists of my enemy, Vaermina. They've taken it with them back into one of their monasteries. Head to Dawnstar and there seek out the Dunmer Priest. He can take you were you seek. Recover my star and return it to my shrine. If you do this you will be blessed."

With that, the voice, and the sensation, disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. Lydia stood there quietly, feeling a strange sense of abandonment.

Hammel shook his head, his pack making rattling noises as his helmet clinked against the mug. Pushing himself to his feet, the Nord looked the Priestess dead in the eye. "Where," he questioned confidently, "Is the quickest path to Dawnstar?"

* * *

><p>AN: Thank you for your continued support of this massive undertaking. Every one of you is appreciated.<p> 


	17. Beasts and Men

AN: Thanks again to my mother for helping me with my grammar and punctuation. Thank you the readers for your patience in waiting for this chapter, I hope you'll find it well worth the wait.

**Chapter 17**

**Beasts and Men**

"_Of course, there are beasts and then there are men. Any fool can see the obvious differences between them. The real question is to determine which man is really a beast and which beast is really a man."-A letter to Emperor Titus Mead II from General Tullius, concerning Skyrim. Date of composition, 4E 201_

The first man she saw was dead, his throat cut cleanly. The pool of blood forming around his fallen corpse wasn't yet cool when she passed him.

The second body was a Khajiit, impaled on the splintered remains of a pine branch. He hung like a cloak on a rack, swaying gently in the nighttime breeze. Like the first body, his blood, as it ran down the trunk and dripped off his limp form, was still warm to the touch.

By the time she reached the third corpse Aela stopped counting.

_I'm not even in Bloated Man's Grotto yet. This will be interesting._

The entrance to the cave was dead ahead, the blood moon rising high in the night sky behind her. The woods had fallen deathly silent, as if the creatures of the forest were watching the hunt unfold. Blood had been spilled this night, yet Hircine had not had his fill of it.

Aela crouched in the underbrush, bow in hand, observing the grotto's entrance with a practiced night eye. A few torches had been crudely planted by its entrance, marking the domain of the hunters. Sounds of combat and exploration reached her ears, carried far on the wind. The air was thick with the scent of fear and blood.

Sindrig yet lived, that much was obvious. Had the werewolf perished, the hunters would have packed up and gone home, each feeling the sting of Hircine's disapproval. Every hunter wanted the Daedric Lord of Hunt's blessing; enough to kill for it. The Companion had stumbled past a pair of hunters struggling over a dagger on her way to the grotto and later a brawl between roughly five individuals.

_Sindrig won't have to dirty his claws; at this rate we'll kill each other before we see him._

No living hunters stirred between her position and the grotto's mouth, shadows danced in the night, providing her almost a straight run into the cave in complete concealment. The longer she delayed the more likely one less worthy would poach her kill.

That was a possibility the Huntress would not stand for.

Drawing and notching an arrow, checking that her dagger was loose in its sheath and her shield ready to be slung from her back in a moment's notice, she dashed. Her hair whipped behind her, the world around her fading away as she rushed headlong into the madness of a wild hunt. Her blood grew hot. The lust for battle hammered in her heart and mind. She wanted the kill, hungered for the kill. The Huntress would have her prize.

The torches flickered as she rushed past, momentarily stealing their heat. Shutting her eyes reflexively, Aela ignored the flame, blasting into the grotto with her night-vision intact. She needed an edge over the other hunters, who'd no doubt think their torches made them safe.

She wasn't sure what Bloated Man's Grotto would look like, and what she saw nearly took her breath away.

To call it a grotto didn't really do it justice. A small forest had taken up residence within the cavern. Several towering pines grew, their tips brushing the cavern's ceiling; a solitary stream bubbled merrily through the center of the cave, cheerfully oblivious to the carnage around. Moonlight shone down from a crack in the ceiling, illuminating the cavern clearly in an almost ethereal state. Past the initial grove of pines was a rocky up-cropping, arranged like several shelves atop one another. A winding path went through the up-cropping, leading deeper into the cave. She could vaguely make out the shape of more trees further in, surrounding a waterfall of sorts. The air within the cavern smelled clean and cool, a gentle breeze circulated it around the grotto.

Sadly, the idyllic scene was in a bit of a mess.

The bodies of several less than fortunate hunters littered the cave in various states of dismemberment. The otherwise crisp air was smothered beneath the scent of blood, hanging heavy over her shoulders. A badly injured argonian leaning against one of the pine was moaning weakly, clutching a brutal knife wound to his gut. No other living creatures were visible.

Bow out, arrow ready, Aela advanced cautiously into the cavern. Nimbly stepping over the corpse of a disemboweled nord, she scanned the area intently, trying to lay eyes on Sindrig, or another hunter. Creeping up to the river, the Huntress took a knee, listening for anything that might be a clue, anything signifying movement. The air went still, the wind quiet. Nothing breathed.

Suddenly the surreal nature of the scene was shattered by an animalistic roar of triumph. Aela's eyes darted towards the stone shelves. Striding to the forefront of her vision, bold as any jarl, was Sindrig. He'd transformed completely into werewolf form, muzzle and claws sticky with blood. Several minor wounds scarred his otherwise slate-gray pelt. Burning with rage, his crimson eyes locked her sea-green ones within moments, as if sensing her very prescience.

"Aela," he rumbled, his voice echoing, the tone gravelly and guttural. "I see you down there. Have you come to help me? Or do you wish to hurt me?" The wolf pleaded his case. "I will never return to civilization, living my day's in seclusion if you'll help me with these hunters and spare my life."

Aela looked the werewolf dead in the eye, ignoring his plea bargain. "I've come to put you down, in Hircine's name."

Sindrig shook his wolf head sadly, sighing. "I'm sorry that it came to this; you won't be leaving Bloated Man's Grotto alive." He roared a second time, before ducking back down behind the stone shelves and out of her vision.

Almost immediately after he'd disappeared, the trees around her came alive as hunters blundered towards the sound of the wolf's voice. A muttering of curses and torch-waving surrounded her, wandering ever closer to her. Her keen ears warned her of danger before it showed itself.

Leaping out of the brush, torch clutched in one hand, a poorly forged longsword in the other, was a male imperial. The hunter was clad in hides, a murderous expression fixed across his face. He looked at Aela and snarled, "Hircine's blessing will be mine!" Spittle flew from his lips as he swung the torch at the Huntress' face.

He was slow, sloppy and hardly worth the effort. Aela stepped back nimbly, raised her bow and launched an arrow at point blank range. The shaft punched through the fur jerkin the imperial wore, knocking him flat on his back. A look of shock froze on his face as he breathed his last, unable to comprehend what had happened. She snorted once, ripping the arrow free from his chest and returning it to her quiver.

_I've battled mudcrabs with more fight._

Aela didn't have time to savor her victory. Exploding outward from all sides were the fallen hunter's comrades. Five angry figures surrounded her in an instant, all looking suitably unimpressed. Facing her directly was an orc, clearly the band leader. He clutched a massive greatsword in his beefy hands. His face was a tapestry of old scars, the massive gold ring hanging from his nose reflected the flickering torch-light around him. Flanking him was a scrawny nord with a sickly beard aiming a crossbow dead at her chest. Clockwise from him was a large nordic woman with a mow-hawk, clad in steel. A red tattoo covered most of her face. One hand held a finely crafted axe, the other a thick wooden shield. The final two men were shifty looking imperials, clad in furs and hides, one holding an axe more common for chopping wood than flesh, the other a crudely maintained pike.

Glancing down at the corpse by Aela's feet, the orc hunter snarled at her, punctuating his phrase by jabbing his sword in her direction. "This bitch killed Amon! Gut her!"

Time slowed to a crawl as adrenalin kicked in. First, she heard the click of the crossbow. Spinning eloquently to the side, the Huntress almost lazily watched the bolt sail past her, burying itself in the gut in the pike-carrying imperial. Even as he collapsed in a heap, gargling and coughing up blood, she was moving. Drawing and firing off an arrow in one smooth motion, Aela dropped her bow, yanking her Skyforged dagger and shield free. The silver-tipped arrow flew true, burying itself in the crossbowman's neck. Blood fountained fourth, showering the orc and nord woman in messy, red gore.

The hunters, not incapacitated, dashed towards her in a clump, but she was ready for them. The nord woman swung the axe at her like she was a block of wood. Aela got her shield in the way, deflecting the strike with ease. Spinning backward, she intercepted a strike from the axe carrying imperial with her shield, earningit another wound as a chunk of pine flew off. Launching a quick kick, Aela took the imperial's feet out from under him, dropping him to the ground. The Companion leaped away from the man as he rose, readying herself for the angry orc.

The orc leader swung his greatsword with a murderous bellow. Rather than block with her shield, Aela dodged, leaving the orc's arm exposed from the strike. Aela slashed across his forearm with her dagger, her reward, a snarl and an attempted backhand. The orc's strike missed her by an inch; however she couldn't retaliate, as the imperial was back on his feet and on her in a second. Clutching the woodcutter's axe in both hands, he swung for her head. Dropping low, she let the strike pass over her, causing the imperial to stumble. In one smooth motion she rose, dagger in hand, and punched her blade through his stomach. Ripping it free from the hunter's guts in a flash of blood and intestines, she pushed the dying man between her and the other two, caving the back of his skull in with her shield as she did so for good measure.

The lifeless corpse collapsed in a heap, leaving Aela, the two standing hunters, and the slowly dying man behind her the only living things visible. The orc and his companion stared across at her for a moment; the trio gauged the strength of the other. Nothing was heard in that moment, save the near silent moans of the quietly dying hunter, still struggling with the crossbow bolt buried in him.

Without a cue, the orc dashed at her, greatsword overhead, bellowing loud enough to alert Sindrig that someone would lay cold in the dirt soon enough. He swung the massive weapon with ease, wielding it with all the effort of a boy with his stick. He was fast, strong and angry. Despite his ugly bulk, he was graceful, moving more akin to a dancer than a butcher. Her arm grew numb as her shield shuddered with each brutal strike. She said a silent prayer of thanks that Eorlund had worked on it recently; otherwise the targe might have splintered beneath the greenskin's fury. Her attention was focused on the orc, but she didn't miss the woman with the axe and shield either. The mow-hawked bandit was still lurking, desperately wanting to cut in and hack a piece off of Aela.

The Huntress responded by breaking away from the orc and slamming her shield directly in the nord's face. The other woman's nose flattened in a spray of blood and bone. Quickly following up with a slash of her dagger, Aela gouged the woman across her face, scarring her and destroying an eye. Dropping shield and axe, both hands went to the devastated face. The hunter fell back, blood oozing from between her clenched fingers. With the woman temporarily out of commission, only Aela and the leader were left.

Snarling violently, he came for her, swinging the blade at her head with both hands. The Companion got her shield in the way, but the strike was too powerful. The great-sword bit deep into the shield, punching through timber and iron. With a casual backhand he yanked, ripping the targe's straps from her arm and pulling the shield away. Before he could shake it from the blade and strike again she tackled him.

He easily had at least a hundred pounds on her, but she wasn't deterred. She slammed into him with all the power in her lithe frame, throwing them both to the ground. The greatsword flew away in the scuffle, clattering into the darkness. Grabbing her neck with both hands, the orc flipped her off his back, bashing her head against the cold, hard, ground. Pain rocketed through Aela's head and stars flashed before her eyes. She hadn't gotten her bearings before the orc pulled her up and slammed her down again. He was intent on pulping her skull against the ground, on driving her to give in, but Aela was a fighter. She'd never give up and die.

As she went down again, feeling the warm blood dripping down her chin, the Hunteress' hand went for her quiver. One hand found an arrow, palm slicing open on its head with a flaming burst of pain. The other was punching the orc's head with all the strength she could muster. She could feel the

smile on his face as she struck, feel the saliva running down his tusks onto her back.

_You think you've got me you bastard? Think again._

She went down again, tasting the dirt in her mouth, but when he pulled her up she was ready. Yanking the arrow free from its scabbard as she was pulled harshly upward, she stabbed it into the orc's face. He shrieked with agony as the silver tip punched clean through a yellow eye. Ripping the arrow free with a wet sound similar to uncorking a bottle, she rolled free from the hunter's grasp.

One of the orc's hands went to the pulverized orb, the other felt around for her lost dagger in a futile attempt to end this conflict. The Huntress snarled and stabbed the arrow into his neck with all her might. The orsimer shuddered, slumping. Kicking him in the stomach for good measure, Aela watched the orc flip onto his back, feebly kicking like a turtle**;** she watched him bleed to death, arrow sticking from his neck.

She had won, once again.

Wiping the blood from her nose with the back of a hand, Aela listened to the pitiful grunts of the female hunter and the imperial, still dying slow from the crossbow bolts. Glancing about the cave, her eyes fell upon the dagger she'd dropped in the battle with the orc. Its skyforged steel glinted in the light, a clear invitation to end the conflict.

The Companion found the blade and did just that.

* * *

><p><em>Flames danced around him, licking the timber walls on their way to the ceiling. Several bodies lay lifeless in the grass, some clutching weapons but others unarmed. The fire was almost hypnotizing, the screams surreal, horrifying. Grogork held his orcish greataxe in both hands, the brains of traitors stained its head. The chieftain wanted to take all their heads; to fight them all. His bloodlust told him to stand and kill each as the came; yet he was no fool. Grogork knew it was over. His little brother had been cunning, ruthless. Malacath pissed on the runt. This was not the way!<em>

_ His other brother, Garborz, middle son, stood faithfully by his side, mace in each hand. Garborz knew the traditions; he would die for his brother, die an orc. Garborz was grizzled, frightening, and he'd downed three of the traitors in the span of moments. His dance of death was almost too graceful for orckind. If only all had his loyalty. But alas, the little brother had swayed most with promises of gold and women and glory. Malacath would surely curse the stronghold for this treachery. Bribes were the way of cowards, not orcs._

_ An orc rushed him, covered in the blood of a loyalist; a loyalist who knew Grogork's rightful claim of strength. The chief's blood boiled with hatred and he crushed this traitor's head with a blow from the axe._

_ "Let them come!" Garborz roared, slamming his maces together triumphantly, "The simpering bugger hasn't beaten us yet!"_

_ Grogork looked left and right; everywhere his eyes fell on more oncoming traitors, too many for even he and his loyal brother to slay. Malacath's domain was calling his name; this was the end._

_ Yet one thing remained._

_ "Garborz," he commanded his voice steel and unemotional. Now was not the time for weakness, it was the time for action. "Brother, you I trust." Garborz looked at him, blood trickling down from a deep scar some traitor had left in his forehead. "Go to the longhouse cellar, my son is hiding there. Take him away from here, ensure he lives. He must live!"_

_ "I'm not a wet nurse! Get one of your wives to do it!" The snarl was punctured by the cracking of a mace against ribcage. Another enemy orc fell beneath Garborz' fury. _

_"All are dead or with the betrayers! My son must live, he must take vengeance against the traitor! This is not the way of Orckind. He must live!"_

_ Garborz did not want to leave. That was obvious. He looked at his older brother with a pained expression. "What of you?"_

_ His grip on the axe's handle tightened. "I'll buy you time, with luck, only a few will come after you." His lips curled back in a defiant sneer. "My axe is thirsty for blood, I want to give her one last drink." His smiled faded away, "Garborz, there is no one else left. Please brother, save my son."_

_ The other Orc's eyes watered, for just a moment. Then he steeled himself. "We will see each other again someday, brother. Take Malacath's strength." With that blessing, he dashed into the darkness, speeding toward the longhouse. Two of the traitor's dogs attempted to stop him. Both staggered backward, skulls caved in from well-struck blows._

_ A few orcs went in pursuit of Garborz, but most closed in on the chieftain._

_ Grogork closed his eyes. Instinct took over. The first traitor fell beneath his axe. He spun and dispatched a second in the same manner. He hewed the arm of a third, firing a kick at the enemy's midsection. At that moment the first spear punctured his gut. With a blood-chilling cry of rage, Grogork ripped the spear from his stomach and drove it through the neck of the enemy who'd thrust it at him._

_ A hatchet bit into his shoulder, a sword gashed his calf, an arrow punched through his forearm. Still Grogork stood, beating the enemy back with a cold, machine-like resolve. He hadn't seen his traitor brother, pity, but not surprising. The coward would never have faced him in battle; he was no fighter._

_ Out of the corner of his eye, Grogork saw the horse blast through the stronghold's blazing gate. His loyal brother's war-braid flapping behind him. He saw the small, cloak-covered package sitting on the saddle and he knew, he knew, his son had a chance._

_ He bellowed for all to come, to try and take his life, drawing eyes and ears toward him. Two more arrows struck him, but to the now battle-raging orc they were like flea bites. Another enemy fell, head hew clean from his shoulders. The chief himself sustained another wound._

_ He couldn't cover all sides of himself at once, he couldn't fight them all. The ring of bloodied bodies at his feet grew, but it was a lost battle. Grogork never saw the warhammer that struck him from behind. He felt the knife at his throat though. As he lay on the ground dying, he felt the knife sawing away at his neck._

_ His last thought was of his son, his last sensation, a firm grip on his hair, ripping him free..._

* * *

><p>Clob sat bolt upright in his bedroll, chin quivering with emotion. He didn't understand the dream, why it had affected him, why he'd even had it, but it left an impact on him that he could not fathom.<p>

The sun was shining down brightly from above, the birds chirping in the air, a gentle breeze rolled lazily by on the unexpectedly warm air. Everything seemed crisp and bright; not at all like he'd expected when he'd set out on the this journey.

Glancing about, Clob determined the actions of his companions. Rosie sat on a fallen tree testing the pull on a longbow she'd brought with her. Burz crouched before a roaring fire, frying some bacon and mushrooms, judging from the mouth-watering aroma wafting on the breeze.

Yawning like a cat, the mage pushed himself out of his bedroll, clad only in a pair of shabby linen breeches. The wind rustled his beard and tickled his chest; rolling his neck with a satisfying crack, he glanced towards the other orc. "Morning," he rumbled, casually casting a detect life spell. Not that he didn't trust his new found allies, but he'd learned long ago to depend on himself above all others. Nothing beyond the three of them and a few birds was detected.

_Good, we're safe for now._

"Morning to you as well," Burz responded in a far more chipper tone. He clearly had sufficient sleep from that previous evening; his watch not leaving him as exhausted as it had the mage.

"Good, you're up," the breton sniped from her perch on the log. "We need to eat and move on. The tundra isn't safe ground." Her stance implied a clear desire to ask more pertinent questions, but was too professional for that.

"First I piss," Clob responded, feeling the urge most seriously, "Then, over breakfast, we plan our route." Gathering up his robes and quarterstaff, the mage took brief leave of his company. A few meters away from the fire and bedrolls was a sufficient outcropping of rocks suitable for his purpose. Maintaining his detect life spell, the orc dropped his trousers and went about his business.

After he'd finished, he stripped off his sleepwear entirely, dressing himself in the simple yet practical robes that had served him so faithfully. Yet despite his ice-calm exterior, he was tormented internally. The dream still haunted him, gripping his soul with a sorrow that would not disperse. He was tormented by what would happen in the days to come upon his arrival at Largashbur. Would old friends live? Would they fight for him? Would there be blood at all?

He shook his head, adjusting his haversack's position and tightening his belt. He had an image to present, that of a controlled, focused man. Running a hand through his dark green beard andclearing any remaining tangles from the previous night, he breathed out. Rolling his shoulders once until they cracked as his neck had done earlier, the Orc strode back towards the fire, whistling a pub tune under his breath. Rosie had taken a seat next to Burz; their legs barely touching. Each held a pewter plateof the morning's breakfast which left a cloud of steam. Sitting in the dirt across from the the two mercenaries, Clob gratefully accepted a bowl full of bacon and mushroom from his brother orc.

"If we can maintain a steady pace of travel, assuming we don't encounter a dragon or bandit clan, we should reach Largashbur within a ten day or so," he began simply, taking a strip of bacon from the bowl and popping it into his mouth. Chewing contentedly on the well-seared meat, the mage pondered his next sentence. "I don't believe there will be violence on our immediate arrival. There might be some shortly thereafter, however."

"So, you don't know if these people want to kill you or not?" Rosie demanded, arching a single white eyebrow. Her tone dripped with a disbelieving sarcasm. "How long has it been since you've been there?"

Clob shrugged. "I could not put a date on it. Long." He gazed into the flames, still bright and mesmerizing despite the morning sunlight. "Very long..."

"It isn't unreasonable, Rosie," Burz commented, not seeming upset in the slightest. "We are a far more complicated people than any outsider understands." He clasped Clob on the shoulder, squeezing it tightly, as if the two had been long-time companions rather than recent acquaintances.

"I'm getting that," she responded evenly, looking fondly at her friend, wiggling her dirty toes casually. "Still wish I knew whether to go in with my axe drawn or not."

"Keep your hand on the handle." Clob answered ruefully, "Compromise."

Rosie smiled politely. "I'll do just that."

* * *

><p>"Gods! Daedra Lords! Please! Please help me! Please make the pain go away! Please stop! Please!" Silus Vesuius' pleas transformed into shrikes of agony, the kind of which truly desperate animals made in moments of panic.<p>

It seemed a fitting analogy to Nero.

The want-to-be cultist was tied between a door frame, each wrist tied tightly to an opposite corner, both feet likewise bound. Only his small clothes remained to protect Silus' modesty, not that he was conscious enough to really notice at the moment. The imperial had been cut, burned, prodded, electrocuted, had bones broken and several fingers removed. The door frame was stained with blood, while a pool of sweat, urine and blood pooled underneath the victim.

"Dawnstar has been very open, accepting someone like you into their little community," Cladius told Silus casually, leaning back in one of the other man's chairs. It had looked so nice sitting next to the dining table, Nero wanted it with him when he and Eola took Silus to the basement for a chat. He gestured with the bottle of mead he'd been drinking from at the blubbering mess lashed up before him. "And you've been very generous as well! Letting us stay in your home like this!" He gestured at the darkened cellar around him, a smile on his lips. "Giving us food and drink; you are too gracious a host."

His next comment was cut short by Silus screaming in agony again. Eola had been prodding him for the past few moments with a burning poker; every so often she found a point of weakness. "Are you sure no one outside can hear us? I don't want to cut our way out of the city without getting what we came for." She seemed almost giddy with the prospect of violence. Her words were more of an attempt at appeasement than an actual sentiment.

"Either that or they don't care about the one man in all Skyrim with the audacity to build a little museum to the Mythic Dawn. Imagine that." Nero placed all four of the chair's legs on the dirt floor, waving his hand before him like a painter would a brush. The cape on his armor billowed slightly with the gesture, but kept its toxins at bay. "Building a little tribute to the very group that murdered our beloved emperor Uriel all those years ago. And tried to end the world, lets not forget that!" His false enthusiasm made Eola chuckle darkly, holding the poker away from the cultist; for the moment.

"Is that what this is about?" Silus mumbled from between bloodied lips and broken teeth. "Is this revenge for my ancestor's murder of Uriel?"

_He did seem so proud of the family connection. Tisk tisk._

"Is this about Uriel?" Claudius leaned back and laughed loudly. His chuckles bounced around in the darkened cellar, chilling the soul of the victim who heard it. "I could care less for Uriel! I piss on his memory." The Daedra worshiper spat magnificently on the ground at the mention of the long-dead emperor's name. "I wish your ancestors had succeeded, you know. Brought Oblivion to Tamriel. Something to shake up the dull, meaningless repetitiveness of it all." He shook his head sadly. "Alas, they were stopped. Maybe the dragons will pull it off, eh? Second time is the charm." He smiled broadly at the thought, taking another draft from the cool bottle.

Silus seemed more surprised than pained in that moment. "If this isn't about the empire; if you are a believer, why do this?"

Nero waved a hand. "Who's asking the questions? Not you." Eola punched the imperial across the jaw with all the force she could bring to bear. Silus' head snapped back as a tooth flew from his mouth while two others broke. Silus slumped in his bonds, the ropes the only things keeping him from collapsing into the puddle beneath him. "My lord doesn't much care for yours; making us enemies. I don't care about the supposed animosity myself. But do you honestly think something like the Razor belongs on display? I should kill you for that alone."

Silus blinked. "Wha?"

Nero snapped. "Don't lie to me!" He snarled, practically leaping out of his chair. His demeanor changed from calm to fury in an instant. He threw the furniture backward violently, smashing the bottle in his hand against the door frame. "You know where its pieces lie! I saw the shards you kept in the display cabinet in your little museum. Tell me where the other pieces are!"

"I don't..."

Claudius stabbed the broken bottle into the other man's chest, punching a jagged gouge in his torso. Ripping the bottle free in a mess of flesh and blood, Nero threw it away; the black of his gauntlets staining a brilliant crimson.

He composed himself, breathing in and out a moment, before speaking again. His formerly calm mannerism restored itself. "We can go about this two ways. You answer all my questions, mark the location of the other missing pieces of the Razor on my map, I cut you down, give you a drink," he pointed toward the shattered remains of the mead bottle. "A different drink obviously. Then me and my lovely companion leave you to return to your pathetic attempt to appease Mehrunes Dagon, the Daedric prince of DESTRUCTION, with your disgusting museum." He drew a small knife from a sheath on his belt faster than the eye could follow. The blade seemed to be constructed of bone; the handle was antler of some kind. It was wickedly sharp, that was obvious from a casual glance. "Or, I cut your toes off, feed them to Eola, who would approve of that." The cannibal licked her lips at the suggestion, glancing down hungrily at the digits. "Then I take most of your remaining fingers, I take an ear, just one, that way you can still hear me." He gestured at his own ear with the knife. "It wouldn't be very effective of me to leave you unable to listen to my commands. Likewise, I'd scoop out an eyeball, just one, and squish it between my thumb and forefinger like a grape. If ,by that point you were fool enough to resist, I'd start stripping flesh off the arms, not enough that you couldn't use the few fingers you'd have left to mark the points I need on my map, but enough you'd beg me to take the arm so you couldn't feel it anymore. You know the funny thing?" Nero leaned in close then, his mustache a hair from the other man's face. Silus shook his head, blood oozing out from various openings in his face. "You'll do what I say anyway and all your resistance will be for nothing. The end result is the same. The ultimate question is, how much do you want to hurt first?"

Eola looked Silus up and down, practically salivating the whole while. The staff resting on her back glowed with an unholy power, almost in tune with her unnatural hunger. Nero pointedly ignored her, as if only he and Silus where in the room. The Imperial slumped in his bonds, while the chest wound Claudius had graced him with wept blood. The Daedra worshiper had seen many men defeated in his life, but rarely one whose hopes were so brutally and completely shattered.

Tied up in his own basement, at the mercy of a man so utterly ruthless, in his own town, his neighbors unaware of his mortal danger, Silus broke down and wept.

"Now, now, cheer up." Cladius told him, holding up the other man's chin with an outstretched hand, patting his cheek gently with the other. "You'll tell me everything I want to know, and the pain stops. I'll even stitch you back up by way of apology. It'll be all right." His voice was eerily sincere, as if he actually cared about his prisoner.

"I'll do it." The words were mumbled softly, around a mouthful of blood. Tears dripped down the man's face, landing in big splashes on the floor.

Cladius continued patting Silus' cheek tenderly, despite the bulk of his ebony gauntlet. "Good man, what did I tell you?" Working quickly and efficiently, the Imperial slashed through the bindings with his bone dagger, dropping Silus to the floor in an undignified heap. The want-to-be cultist rubbed his frayed wrists painfully, coughing up blood sporadically.

"Eola, get my map, set up a space for our friend to write. Light a few candles, insure there is ink in his quill, that sort of thing." He knelt by Silus' hunched form, gripping his shoulder tightly. "Can I get you anything? You look terrible."

_An understatement surely._

"Water," the man gasped between breaths, "Water, please."

Nero nodded sagely, leaving the man to collect himself. Fetching a battered tin mug from the cupboard against the back wall, the Dadric worshiper filled it with cool water from the large cask in the cellar's corner. Nero helped Silus to his feet, the other man looking more dead than alive. Passing him the mug, he informed Silus, "Drink slowly, don't chock yourself now."

Taking the mug in both hands, Silus sucked its contents down greedily, water spilling out both sides of his mouth, dripping down his badly battered frame. With three fingers missing, Silus struggled to keep the mug even, but he managed. Even as the man drank, Nero guided him over to the small table Eola had been preparing, seating him in the chair. Taking the quill pen out from Eola's grasp, Nero pressed it into Silus's battered hand, gently taking the mug away. "Now, something easy." He began pointing to the large canvas map of Skyrim his cannibal companion had set up on the table. "Circle the areas where the other missing parts of the Razor are, and jot down any information we might need to know. Names, enemies, anything you think is worthwhile. After that I have a few questions."

The want-to-be cultist began writing as best he could. Nero had been careful not to break any bones nor take any fingers on the man's primary hand, so he could write clearly and efficiently. His progress was still slow, however. He seemed to be struggling with the three fingers he no longer possessed in his off hand, and the gaping, untreated wound Nero had given him with the bottle.

The Daedric worshiper stood quietly as the other man circled three points on his map, then scribbled a few lines of barely legible text next to each circle. "That's all I know, I swear!"

Nero handed him back the mug. "Good man! Eola, get our new friend some bread and cheese, he looks famished." The cannibal grumbled under her breath but did as he commanded, rummaging through Silus' cellar for anything to feed the man with.

"Now," Cladius stated business-like, pacing back and forth behind the seated man. "My companion and I found your lovely museum completely by accident. We were drawn to Dawnstar for a completely different reason. We could sense the lingering power of two extremely ancient Daedric artifacts near this city, which completely masked the lingering traces from the shards. Now," he clapped his hands dramatically, "do you know of any Daedric artifacts or cults anywhere near the city? With the exception of yourself and the Razor shards upstairs; obviously."

The plate of bread and cheese arrived before Silus, prompting the man to begin shoveling food down his throat with both hands.

_Being tortured is famishing._

"I only know of one thing you could be looking for, a temple dedicated to Vaermina in the mountains overlooking Dawnstar. There used to be a big cult dwelling there, but the temple's been abandoned for years. Something might still be there, but no one in town will go anywhere near the place. They all believe it's cursed or haunted, or both. The only man willing to risk a curse is the priest."

"Priest?" Nero's curiosity was peaked. "What priest?"

"Some dunmer." Silus spoke around a mouthful of crumbs, his words barely comprehensible behind the waterfall of food bits he spat everywhere. "He arrived in Dawnstar shortly after the nightmares started. Says Mara sent him here to cure us and stop 'em."

Nero tapped the bone blade of his dagger very casually. "Nightmares? What do you mean?"

Silus took a long draft of water from the mug. "Everyone in town has been plagued by horrifically vivid nightmares that started roughly around the same time. This priest of Mara comes soon after he hears about it. The nightmares had become so bad I couldn't sleep at night; everyone in town is exhausted."

_He's confirmed my suspicions._

"Do you have any family or friends currently residing in Dawnstar?" The Imperial asked his countryman casually, moving until he stood directly behind him. The other man didn't notice the shift of posture, he was too engrossed with filling his stomach.

"No, not really. My museum had scared most folk in Dawnstar." He picked up the block of goat cheese, biting directly into it.

"Good." With one brutal motion, Nero grabbed Silus' head, yanked it backward, and slit the man's throat. Blood gushed forth in a spray, staining the tray of food, the quill, the candles and Nero's map. Silus gave a futile grunt, slumping in the chair. Nero grabbed the dying man and threw him to the floor contemptuously.

"I can't believe he was that eager to please." Eola snorted, rolling her one good eye.

"All men wish to avoid death; he was no exception. First I brutalized him, putting the fear of worse punishment into his fragile mind. Then I played the friend and he believed I'd help him." He gathered up his map before wiping his dagger on the dead man's corpse. "Do what you want with the body, then set fire to this building. Ensure our friend here is burned beyond recognition, set fire directly to the remains if need be. The last thing we need is some priest of Arkay noticing his wounds." He rolled up the map before passing it to her, "When you've finished here, head to Cracked Tusk keep. The other blade shards are there. I will investigate this temple overlooking Dawnstar, then meet you there. Then we go for the pommel together. Understand?"

Eola nodded. "Understood, champion of Nerina." She drew an ugly butcher's knife from her belt, a gleam in her eye.

Not wanting to watch his lover go about her filthy business, Nero strode up the stairs out of the mess called Silus' basement. Entering the central room in the small house where the late Silus had kept his collection of Mythic Dawn artifacts, Nero found the display case with the shards.

The glass looked pitiful, a pathetic attempt to hold such power. Even though they only number half the blade's shards, they radiated a malice and pliable sense of dread. Only a fool would have kept them on display like some prize fish. Without hesitation, Nero drew the mace of Molag Bahl and shattered the pane with one swift strike. Chunks of glass flew in all directions, wood splintering beneath the blow. Scoping up the Razor's remains and storing them in a leather pouch for safekeeping, Nero left the house, striding out into the mid-day sun with a whistle on his lips.

_Nightmares. Interesting._

* * *

><p>"Nightmares?" Lydia asked skeptically. "Really?" Hammel had to agree with his housecarl's assessment, nightmares seemed a little farfetched. He'd had a few brutal ones in his lifetime, but enough strong drink was always the cure. What the man was describing to him wasn't that particular circumstance.<p>

Gjakwas a dirty man, quite literally. Being a miner in a town who's economy depended on his trade kept him busy. He was well built for a mid-sized man; his beefy arms and legs the result of years in the mines. He kept his shoulder length, dirty-blonde hair tied back in a crude ponytail, away from his face. A scraggly beard stood proudly on his chin like a medallion, still blonde despite the dirt and coal dust clinging to it. He was covered head to toe in grime, dust and little chips of rock, yet despite his unclean appearance he was kindly, smart and polite. He was a simple man, Hammel realize, but the Nord had had his fill of complex people.

Karl, Gjak's drinking companion, was exactly the opposite. He was lazy, pudgy, balding and he reeked of mead and vomit. Karl had an exceptionally flat face, save for a fat nose pushing outward from the center of his head. While Gjak had been fine conversation, telling Hammel and Lydia about the city and its inhabitants, Karl had spent his time slumped over the table, a slight trail of drool dripping down onto the wood below his head as he faded in and out of consciousness.

"Aye, nightmares. I swear it on Dibella's sacred teats!" He took a draft from the mug of mead Hammel had paid for, the overflow leaving little streaks through the grime on his face as it dribbled down his chin. "I'm a tough man, been mining all my life, been in my share of scraps, and I'm telling you, man to man, nothing has scared me more than what I see in my dreams."

"You can't just drink them away?" Lydia suggested, raising her mug to the miner. A very sensible suggestion, one the majority of guests to Windpeak Inn seemed intent on trying. The small tavern was hopping, patrons crowding around the tables scattered around the hearth. A blonde-haired maid played the lute in the corner while the bartender kept sliding mugs and bottles around. A dull roar of conversation hung over the crowd, as real as the smoke from a dozen pipes.

Hammel's own pipe was lit; the sweet scent of tobacco drifting up past his nose. "My housecarl's made an excellent suggestion. I've got too many things that would haunt my dreams if I let them, but mead and ale keeps them at bay."

"Tried it." Gjak pointed at the bags under his eyes. "Tried utter exhaustion; doesn't help either. I never have just an empty night's sleep. Always the visions come back, haunting me, no matter what I try." He shook his head, clapping Karl on the shoulder. "And it isn't just me. You're having nightmares too, aren't you Karl?"

The drunk tapped the table once, slurring out a word that sounded vaguely like "Aye."

"Two people." Lydia shrugged, draining her mug in one draft. "Hardly spectacular." She waved the serving girl to bring her another mug.

"It's everyone in the town." That got Hammel's attention. "We've all got them. Hardened warriors, drunks, pirates; we're all suffering from this curse."

The word curse further peaked the ex-Legionnaire's curiosity. Leaning forward, hands folded around the bowl of his pipe, he looked Gjak in the eye. "A curse?"

"Aye, a curse." The miner took the opportunity to finish his mead, slamming the now empty mug on the table for emphasis. "That's what I believe. Now we've got a priest of bloody mother Mara in town, telling us the Divine's are going to help. Sounds like damn solid evidence for a curse if you ask me."

_Azura told me to seek the Dunmer priest; he'd help lead me to the Star. Nightmares certainly sound like something Vaermina would do._

"A priest of Mara? In Dawnstar? Seems unlikely." Lydia received her drink gratefully, taking her first sip before the wench had moved on to the next table.

"He's here, name's Erandur, nice guy. I'll give him that. Dark Elf, kind of mysterious, wears simple clothes, says he's here to help us. Always, tells us to trust in Mara and that the dreams are just dreams, they'll pass. I doubt he believes it himself though." Every word Gjak said made Hammel more and more convinced he was exactly where he needed to be.

"A dark elf priest? I'd very much like to meet him," Hammel told the two miners, trying to keep his excitement hidden.

"Don't hafta wait long," Karl slurred, his lips impeded by the table and drool leaking out of his mouth. "He's always poking around town, he's probably here somewhere..."  
>Gjak prodded his intoxicated friend with the empty mug in his hand. "Karl's right, whenever something happens..."<p>

His words were interrupted by Windpeak Inn's door flying open with a ear-splitting bang. A gust of wind and snow flew into the Inn, the cold chilling Hammel despite his nordic blood. Standing haggard, in the doorway, was a hold guard, dressed in the colors of The Pale. His expression was hidden behind the faceguard of his helm, but judging from his posture the guard was not having an excellent day. "Fire!" He bellowed, catching the tavern folk off guard. "A building in Dawnstar's caught fire! We need bodies for the bucket chain, now!"

Everyone moved in an instant. Even in the frozen north of Skyrim, if a fire began raging out of control the average thatch roof would light up quicker than an arrow soaked in oil. With Dawnstar being isolated and far from supply lines, the town would suffer a serious crisis if too many structures tasted fire.

_Every man here is thinking about his house going up in flames, blazing away against the snows._

"Who's house caught on fire anyway?" Karl muttered, not bothering to move away from his position at the table. The drunken miner continued to sip away at the remainder of his mead, showing utter lack of concern for the possibility of a fiery death.

Hammel began to rise, not thinking about sitting the bucket chain out before Lydia grabbed his shoulder and held him in his chair. "No, you've just started recovering, my thane. Don't rip the stitches. I'll go out and help. You stay put." Her tone left no room for argument, the look on her face less. His housecarl nodded once at him, then left to join the bucket line.

"Did anyone hear me?" Karl shouted, this time pushing himself off the table long enough to speak, "Who's the idiot got fire set to his house in The Pale?"  
>Everyone ignored him save Gjak, who stuck his head back through the open door long enough to shout, "It's Silus' Mythic Dawn museum. I guess the Nine got tired of his stain on our city. Still, need to put it out before it burns down the town." Gjak headed back out again towards the bucket line, ready to do his part.<p>

Hammel leaned back in his chair and took a drink.

AN: Thanks to you my readers for your continued support.


	18. Blood on the Snows

AN: Apologies for the delay, hopefully this story is back on track now. Thank you for your patience.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18<strong>

**Blood on the Snows**

"_When the winds howl low, the Nord woman knows, her man won't return, he is blood on the snows."-A selection from an ancient Nordic lament, "Blood on the Snows" 1E 303_

His breath hung in the air before him like a cloud, the snow whipping against his cheeks as his horse pawed the ground, whinnying nervously. Quintus patted the side of her neck gently, whispering softly in her ear, "Steady old girl, steady." Winterhold glared up at the invaders, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

Quintus was uncomfortable.

Rikke's words about nordic loyalties rung deep in his mind, worrying him about the future assault. The Legate had sent Hadvar into the city to inform all its inhabitants of the upcoming attack. All loyalist citizens were to gather their belongings and flee behind the Imperial lines; their safety assured. After that was done, he'd order the attack. His hope was that most of Winterhold's inhabitants wouldn't be fool enough to stand and fight a hopeless battle. With luck, enough loyalists would leave, destabilizing the city's defense. He hoped his kindness hadn't been a foolhardy mistake.

"He's been gone some time." Stragg Long-Runner observed from his position at Quintus' shoulder. The Skaal's horse bucked furiously, neighing loudly against the storm.

"Hadvar knows what he's doing, moving a large group takes time." The Legate responded to his second with crisp, even tones. He knew his statement was logical, yet he struggled to believe it himself.

_Hadvar is just taking the time he needs, he'll be back with most the town. Clearly, they can see how outmatched they are._

Jarl Korir was a proud man, descended from proud stock. Quintus knew that much based on the report he'd studied before planning this attack. Korir's sympathies were decidedly Stormcloak; very much Nord independence and old ways. He was bold, heroic and stubborn. In another life, the Legate would have called him friend. Yet fate decreed they would meet as enemies and Quintus didn't bother battling it; resisting fate was the place of the philosopher, not the soldier.

"We need to attack soon," Stragg commented, shifting in his saddle almost casually. "Hadvar or no; we're giving the rebels far too much time to fortify."

Quintus gestured towards the pitiful looking stockade walls surrounding Winterhold, where, already, a few guards could be seen shoring up the walls to the best of their ability. "They can't do much, not against the force we've assembled. I want to give the loyalists time to reach safety. We will not punish any who remain true to our cause for the sake of geography. Give it time."

Stragg nodded understandingly, gazing back towards the town. "They've got some bows."

Quintus gestured behind him with his thumb. Several units of archers, legionaries and levies pulled from several cities, readied their bows, waiting on his command to unleash their volley. "We will rain death upon them," the Legate commented, matter-of-fact, the tone of a man confident in his plan without arrogance.

A rain of arrows would begin the assault, hammering down on the defenders; that rain would be followed by a mass infantry charge, bashing the feeble gates down and scaling the pitiful walls. With the gates shattered and open, the infantry would push into the center of Winterhold, taking it from the rebels. Quintus would lead the strike on the Longhouse, capturing Korir if possible, killing him if not. With the Jarl removed, the remaining resistance would crumble.

But Quintus was banking on something yet to happen, a good portion of Winterhold's remaining population leaving quickly with Hadvar. His nervousness was justified with a delay he did not anticipate. It was his first command underneath the new title of Legate, a promotion he wasn't sure he deserved. Someone had to lead the damn attack, he just hadn't expected it to be him. He'd shown no fear before Tullius and the others and he wouldn't show it now. Quintus was an Imperial, born and bred. He would act worthy of his blood.

It wasn't good for the morale of the army at his back to let his nervousness be known. He sat straight on his horse, chin up, free hand resting on the pommel of his shortsword, cape blowing with the wind. He remained in that posture until the loyalists began leaving the city.

Hadvar's horse was a dark gray beast, more akin to a bull than stallion, which considering the climate was a wise choice. The man looked decidedly unhappy with whatever news he was bringing back as he trotted over to Quintus. Behind Hadvar, a small stream of disheveled people trickled past the Imperial line to the area the Legate had set aside for refugees. It seemed he'd overestimated how much space they would need.

Hadvar slammed a fist against his chest in a salute that the Legate returned. "Legate Descimus, Quaestor Hadvar reporting with the status of town loyalties." Hadvar's face suggested he'd rather have his right hand removed than deliver this message.

"Go on man." Quintus nodded, putting a slight smile on his face as a sign of reassurance.

"Sir, there are more Stormcloaks here than anticipated; hardly anyone came with me, perhaps one in five, almost none of them guards. It seems Ulfric has wormed his way into the hearts of these people."

"Like thorns chocking out the wheat," Stragg commented, "They poison what is good and steal the place of the crop."

"Today we pluck the thorns before the wheat is beyond saving." Quintus responded seriously. "Captain Long-Runner, inform the archers to fire on my mark. Before the day is over, I want the dragon banner hoisted over that Longhouse." Taking his helm in both hands, Quintus placed it over his head, hiding his face from the world. He was an extension of the empire now, no longer a man. "One more thing," it was almost an afterthought, his words muffled behind the helm. "Find a suitable replacement Jarl among those still loyal to the empire. I am afraid Korir will be quite unable to continue in the position after today."

Stragg gave a salute and spurred his horse into action. The Prefect watched his friend ride off towards the archers and refugees before turning his gaze back on the town.

"Hadvar, you will stay with me, you will keep to my shoulder. Understood?"

"Yes, Legate."

Quintus smiled. Fear was gone, nervousness gone, anxiety, gone. It was in the hands of the Eight now.

* * *

><p>"You can't go out there, my Jarl!" Malur was rarely concerned for Korir. The steward spent more time slinking off to drink sujamma in the corner than actually do any work. Yet now, with death knocking on the door, the Dunmer steward actually cared about his Jarl's fate, and by extension his own. "If you fight those soldiers, you will die."<p>

Korir ignore him, holding up both arms. His bodyguard, a great boar of a man of whom Malur never bothered learning the name, began buckling the plate arm-guards onto them. The Jarl's plate mail shone brightly, each steel plate pristine and maintained. "I will not hide in the Longhouse when my people fight to defined my home," he responded tersely, letting his guard continue the task of preparing him for combat. "Malur, fetch me wax and paper."

The steward bustled off to do as he was bid, rubbing his ash-colored hands together nervously as he did. "My Jarl, please reconsider. Beg the Empire for mercy, please surrender and save yourself and what's left of Winterhold. We've already lost half the city to a disaster, let us not lose the other half to the sword."

The guard finished buckling the left arm-guard and Korir let the limb drop. He shot Malur a flinty glare, his dull red beard giving the look a terrifying twist, as if he'd been drinking blood. "I will not bend the knee to elves, I will not sacrifice the freedom of my people for a little more time and I will not disgrace the true High King by abandoning him now. We will make them pay in blood for Winterhold!" His guard continued with the straps on the left, paying no attention to the Jarl's passionate outburst.

Korir was clearly made by the gods to be Jarl and his wrath was something to fear. He was tall, brawny and fair of face. He was handsome, in a rough, nordic manner. His shoulder length hair matched the bloody beard on his face; it was clean and pulled back. Each tooth in his mouth remained white, an uncommon thing for a warrior.

Heavy leather gloves soon covered Korir's hands as Malur brought the wax, candle and paper, placing them on the writing desk set before the Jarl. The Longhouse that had formerly seemed so safe, despite the cataclysm that had swallowed more than half of Winterhold almost eighty years prior, now seemed tattered and frail before the legion of soldiers assembled outside the walls.

Despite what Malur considered very good sense, Korir's wife and housecarl, Thaena, agreed with her husband. "Your Jarl is correct, better die than abandon our king. We told Jarl Ulfric we'd die defending Winterhold and we will!"

Thaena was tall, ruddy and strong. Though she barely number thirty and five years, her hair was pure white, akin to the snow that fell outside in droves. Her arms were folded across her chest and her eyes were still, betraying no emotion as her husband stared down near certain death.

Malur sighed.

_Surrounded by the mad, how did I get into this position?_

The guard had gone to buckling the breastplate onto Korir, adjusting the straps on the upper plates to better fit around the man's massive shoulders. "Thaena, take the paper and stamp it with my seal."

"You don't have time to write a letter..."

"This is no letter." His response was grim, focused. "The seal signifies the words you speak are mine." He directed his instructions towards his wife, ignoring the guard, ignoring Malur and ignoring the threat of the empire. "You will take our son and flee to Windhelm. Find Jarl Ulfric, tell him that we fought them as long as we could. If he doesn't hear from me again I am dead. Stamp the parchment."

Thaena began protesting, even as she went to work with the stamp. "I will not abandon you now, not with the situation so dire!"

"You have to!" He roared, striding forward, breastplate locked in place. "The Empire will kill me! Publicly and in agony! What do you think they'll do to you and Assur?" His face softened and his tone with it. "My line must continue, and you're the only one I can trust to take my words to Ulfric. Tell him, please, my love."

Thaena was a nord woman, she was hard, controlled and didn't show anything. But Malur felt her break. She didn't say a word, she just nodded, eyes haunted with emotion he couldn't fathom as she stamped the paper.

"Thank you." Korir breathed so silently, Malur barely heard the words.

The Jarl's wife, leaned in close and kissed him softly, holding his face in both hands. She had to stand on tiptoes to reach his lips, but she managed. After a moment, she broke away, tracing his face gently with one hand, her eyes barely misting. Then she was gone, parchment in hand. A clean, harsh, break before emotion could settle in.

"I'll make you proud," Korir told the air after she'd left. Fully covered, neck to toe, in plate, the Jarl of Winterhold took up his mighty warhammer from its place by his seat. It was a massive thing, wrought iron and oak, ugly to behold, but its aftereffects uglier by far. He swung it casually, feeling its weight comfortably in his hands. An odd sort of resolve crossed his face.

"Could I at least convince you to wear a helmet?" Malur implored, holding out his hands in a placatory manner. "Your circlet provides no protection from arrow or blade." The Dunmer pointed at the gold, gem-encrusted band resting on the Jarl's head. A symbol of his office, pretty but hardly practical.

"I want them to look me in the eye when they take my life. I want all to know this Jarl did not cower behind his throne when the oppressor came."

_You could do that just as efficiently with protection for your head._

The door to the Longhouse opened, snow blowing into the heart of Winterhold along with the man who'd opened it. Kai Wet-Pommel was a humorous man, but he was a brutal fighter and a cunning tactician. The Stormcloak captain had provided sound enough council for the time he'd been stationed in the city. His blonde hair was crudely cropped short, his stubble sat without complaint on his face. He was short and stocky, like a boar, or overweight barrel. A great round shield covered his back and a mighty waraxe sat at his waist. The armor of the bear covered him head to toe; the cowl, the beast's own face, covered his head. It was raised only for one reason.

"My Jarl," he rumbled, voice like thunder and wrath. "The Empire has begun mobilizing. I've done what I could with our defenses in the time our rats abandoned the ship. But there are far to many soldiers outside the gates to win this fight."

"Sovengarde awaits those who die with honor," Korir stated firmly, hand tightening around the warhammer's handle. "Take me to the walls."

As both men left, Malur slunk deeper into the recesses of the Longhouse. He didn't want to die, not for some High King not his own.

The arrows had begun falling before Malur found his hiding place.

* * *

><p>"Gods! It feels good to walk unaided again!" Hammel took the opportunity to make a small jump, clicking his heels in the process, just to push the limits of his healing. Lydia was thoughtful enough not to roll her eyes at his childish antics.<p>

"Be careful, it took quite a lot of magika to heal that wound, I'd rather not repeat it." Erandur quipped leading them forward with long, purposeful strides. It was a brisk walk from Dawnstar to the ancient fortress Vaermina's faithful had occupied all those years ago, and Erandur told them time was precious.

He was an enigma, the priest. His clothes were a simple monk's robe and hood of a dull, dirt brown. Hanging from his neck was a lovingly crafted holy symbol of Mother Mara, carved from wood with a few stones of minor value pressed into various openings. He was plain, his skin a typical gray for a dark elf. He wore a dark black beard, trimmed and clean. His hands, likewise, were very clean. However, the elven mace the priest wore in the hemp rope he'd claimed as a belt was clearly expensive, far beyond the reach of a simple priest.

Just as the miners had said, Lydia found Erandur in the bucket line, doing what he could to stop the fire blazing out of control. Lydia told the priest of their intentions and he'd met with them.

The nightmares the citizens of the town continued to experience were very much real, he explained; they were no ordinary dreams, rather they were haunted visions; part pure horror and part muddy prophecy, if things remained unchanged. A powerful artifact belonging to Vaermina, he believed judging from the citizen's symptoms, rested within the carcass of the fortress. The chaos currently engulfing Skyrim fed the Deadric Lord's power, drawing new followers to her side. She'd taken the opportunity to expand her influence, gaining more and more power in a bid to claim Skyrim for her own, tipping the balance in the eternal war of Daedra.

Erandur had set up a small shrine to Mother Mara in the entrance chamber, an attempt to purify the ground and delay Vaermina's advance. Yet she dared not to venture deeper within the temple alone. A powerful barrier sealed it from the outside world, one the priest would not breach without protection. The temple was dangerous, even in its long dormant state.

"Remember, the cultists remaining within are in hibernation," he explained as they trudged through the knee deep snow. "Once the barrier is breached, that stasis effect will be broken and they will awaken, slowly. We'll need to work quickly, or be swarmed."

"Right," Lydia stated slowly, "Explain that to me again? Stasis how?" The woman scratched her midnight hair awkwardly, chewing her lip as she tried to focus. "I'm lost."

Erandur, to his credit, gave no cue of annoyance. If Lydia's continued probing bothered him, he didn't show it. "The temple had one final emergency measure. In the case of utmost need, a gas, known as the Miasma would be released. This gas would quickly filter throughout the temple's interior, inducing an ageless, dreamless sleep. Simultaneously, a warding spell would place the temple in a state of semi-permanent lockdown. Only those who knew the proper incant could drop the barrier and end the lockdown." He shrugged his scrawny shoulders, "Most likely, this place was attack by a gang of bandits or hungry mercenaries. With the possibility of losing their unholy relics to such forces, the cultists would have activated the gas, buying time for reinforcements to arrive. Reinforcements, it seems, who never did."

"This temple," Hammel prodded cautiously, "They would have a vault for treasure? Valuables?"

_Don't mention the star, we need his help and don't know how he'd react._

"Yes." The priest responded slow and flat. "The inner sanctum would contain a vault filled with anything of worth. But I doubt you'll find any valuables within."

_Treasure means different things to different folk, sir._

"How do you know all this?" Lydia asked him suddenly, her tone neutral. "You have some pretty impressive knowledge of Varmenia's temples. I doubt that's standard priest-y learning."

"I'm very well read," he responded evenly without the slightest delay, "A priest must understand the faith of the daedric worshiper, to better refute him."

Erandur was saved further questions by their fortuitous arrival at the temple. It was an ancient building, once impressive, now ruined. The great stones lay crumbling, towers and turrets collapsed upon themselves, only vaguely resembling their former grandiose design. Snow buried those large portions that had caved inward. The sorry remains of a few banners clung to the remnants of stone walls, now more ground than wall. The only thing still in halfway usable condition were a simple set of oaken-iron wrought, double doors.

Erandur gestured towards the temple's carcass with an open hand. "The temple of Vaermina. It would have been splendid back in its time. Now it is just a shell. Nothing but snow, ghosts and an unknown number of unconscious cultists linger within," He smiled self-consciously, "and one priest, trying to bring the light of Mara to its unhallowed halls." He strode towards the double doors. "Shall we enter?"  
>The hairs on the back of Hammel's neck begun to stand up and his palms itched. Instinctively he dropped his hand to the head of the axe on his belt. Lydia, he couldn't help but notice, had drawn her shield and loosened her longsword in its scabbard.<p>

"My thane, I don't much like the look of this place," she grimaced. "It looks like a tomb, just waiting to happen." She sniffed once, "And it smells."

"We'll be fine," Hammel answered without any confidence whatsoever.

"That's reassuring." She riposted, deadpan.

The priest threw the double doors aside dramatically, ushering them inside. The wind picked up, practically pushing them through the open doors, along with half of Skyrim's snows. Some managed to find its way down Hammel's neck and back, chilling him more than he'd like. His breath hung in the air, before Erandur closed the doors.

There had been effort put into cleaning up the entrance chamber, likely from the priest. It was swept clean, the fallen rocks and stone were pushed into a far corner. A few small candles burned, providing light to the chamber and generating some heat. A simple bedroll and sack sat against the far wall. To their right was a well-maintained alter, with a small shrine to Mara sitting atop it. A book of sacred writings and selection of holy symbols shared the shrine with the alter. Directly across from the entrance was a large set of stone doors, still in perfect condition, each door decorated with an assortment of arcane runes; runes still pulsing with magical energy.

"The church of our Mother." Erandur's voice carried a hint of simple pride, as if the room was a sweeping cathedral, rather than just a single room in a ruin. "It will expand in time, but for now it suits my purpose."

"I'm guessing those scary looking doors are how we explore this jolly establishment," Lydia mused, lips pursed. Erandur nodded. "Maybe there's a pub." Hammel cracked a slight smile at her quip. Erandur did not..

"Enough of this," The Companion didn't want to think, to let his feelings get the better of him. This had to be done, Azura had bestowed this task upon him and he would see it through. "Crack open the seal, priest. Let's greet the unknown with blades drawn." He drew the Kiss and the axe of Whiterun to illustrate his point. Each weapon gleamed in the light, shining with deadly purpose.

Lydia's sword was in her hand in seconds, the candlelight running up and down it's length, her shield a bulwark against whatever blade came her way. Erandur nodded and raised both hands. He wove an intricate pattern of symbols in the air, muttering words of power under his breath. The Dunmer closed his eyes, leaned backward and called on Mara's name.

"Mara, mother of all, we, your children, call upon your power now. Rest your favor on us that we may cleanse this place of its darkness. End its threat to your children here on Tamriel. We beseech you All-Mother, tear down this barrier, by your power!"

Mother Mara was evidently listening, or the finger wagging Erandur had given the door worked, because the runes on the stone doors faded away almost instantly. A crackling presence that Hammel hadn't noticed before ceased to be, leaving an odd feeling of normalcy.

"The temple is open to us now," The priest stated without fanfare, punctuating his sentence by drawing the elven mace from his belt. "I know not how many cultists or invaders we will find within. But, if we are quick, we can end the source of the threat to Dawnstar before Vaermina can make her play."

He pushed the door open slowly, listening to the sound of stone scrapping across stone, watching the cloud of dust being flung upward as hallway came into focus.

Like the rest of the temple, this newly revealed hallway was crumbling. Cobwebs were more frequent than stones on the walls, and the formerly pristine cobble-work floor was cracked and distressed almost beyond recognition. Wooden support beams slowly rotted, crying out for replacement. An awful stench of stale air and blood rushed up to greet the entering trio.

Lydia waved her shield in front of her face. "Well the smell's worse on the inside."

But the stench was the least of their problems. Sprawled across the pathway, slowly pushing themselves to their feet, were four forms. Three were men in dark purple robes, cultists of the Daedra. The forth was an orc, dressed in furs and hides. The men had daggers, the orc, a mace; it seemed obvious who belonged to the invading force.

The first cultist to get himself upright, looked at Hammel and shrieked, coming at him with dagger flashing. The Nord didn't hesitate. Sidestepping the groggy blow, he countered by burying the axe deep into the man's face. It parted the cultist's skull like an oar in a stream, coating the steel horse in blood. Hammel used the momentum, moving forward into the next man. That cultist seemed more awake than the first, comprehending the danger heading toward him. But his thrust was likewise sloppy and slow. Deflecting it with a glance from the Kiss, Hammel took this one at the neck, separating head from torso with one clean blow of his axe. The third man stared wide-eyed, clearly not expecting a blood-stained axe to be the first thing he saw after coming out of his slumber. He never felt its bite, as the orcish invader took his momentary confusion as an opportunity to end a battle that had been raging for gods only knew how long.

The orc raider brained the cultist in the back of the skull, spilling bone and blood upon the floor. He growled in triumph, throwing the corpse aside. He advanced two steps forward before a bolt of lighting struck him in the chest. The orc flew into the ceiling, spasming uncontrollably, His body sizzled and his eyes exploded as magical energy ran rampant throughout his body. Hammel turned to see Erandur shaking his hand, so casually one might be forgiven for thinking he merely intended to remove dust from it.

"Mother Mara approve of throwing lighting around like that?" He asked the priest, sweat dripping down the bridge of his nose, pieces of his hair clinging to each other in patches. The helmet rested against his head comfortingly. He'd almost forgotten how good it felt to move unrestricted; to fight free of pain. He very much liked it.

"The flock must be protected." Erandur answered without a trace of hesitation.

"I suppose the rest of the cultists won't fall so easily?" Lydia asked, her tone suggesting optimism she herself didn't believe.

"No. The Miasma's effects will have worn off as quickly with the others as this lot. I suggest caution."

"Caution's good," Lydia agreed.

* * *

><p>It was a tight fit. His armor became wedged in the stone more than a few times, but Nero wasn't discouraged. The Ebony Mail was magnificent, far too precious to let a little bulkiness lead to its abandonment. Besides, he'd killed more than a few people to get his hands on it; their sacrifices should benefit someone.<p>

Finding a way into the temple had been easier than he'd expected. The place was a ruin, more holes than walls. Locating one big enough for him to squeeze through hadn't taken long. That was fortunate because he'd been unsure how to penetrate the barrier the temple would have had. Perhaps Spellbreaker, that mighty enchanted shield Peryite had gifted him with, could have smashed through it, or the Ebony Mail's magic would have let him pass. Yet it mattered not; the barrier was down.

This surprised him quite a bit. Vaermina's cultists were a dedicated lot and cherished their wards. If the temple had been locked down and Miasma deployed, which he assumed would be, only another member of her cult could remove that barrier; unless he was powerful indeed. Only someone incredibly gifted in the arcane arts would be able to duplicate the cultist's magic and Dawnstar certainly didn't have anyone of that caliber, unless the mysterious priest he'd heard about was more than eyes revealed.

Dropping in utter silence, despite the armor's bulk, Nero's boots touched the stone and he was inside the temple. The slight fall of a few feet was no bother; his entrance was secure. It was now a matter of finding the items.

His senses were honed for this, his own essence seeking out the aura of the relics. There were two of incredible power within, that much was obvious. They weren't the thigh bone of some minor cult leader or a rag Mankar Cameron had brushed his hand against. These artifacts were steeped in unholy power; power that only came from direct contact with a Daedra. And there where two of them.

_Nightmares indeed. I'm halfway surprised Dawnstar is still present at all._

Whispered words began to reach his ear, echoing up from the hallway. Figuring whose voices these were was as good as any other way to begin his search. The Daedric worshiper crept towards them. His armor blended in perfectly with the darkness of the ruined temple, shielding him from all but the most observant eyes. His breathing was stilled; his footsteps mere whispers.

A small coatroom split the hallway he was heading down and in it were the sources of the voices. Five purple-robed men stood over the body of an orc. Each man clutched a bloodied dagger, which, judging from the state of the body, had been used to great effect on the orc. The robes they wore were dyed a deep purple and stitched with a shifting, dream-like pattern, all circles and swirls.

_Vaermina faithful. To be expected._

They spoke in hush tones about the Miasma, and holding back the invaders. One wanted to know where the reinforcements where. Another questioned exactly how long they'd been in a state of stasis; what year was it now? The final, and seemingly most prominent, questioned who had dropped the shield surrounding the temple; Surely only a faithful could do that? If that was so, why hadn't they contacted the high priests?

Nero took a glance at their arrangements. One stood directly in the doorway before Nero, back towards the Daedric worshiper. Two others stood close by him, looking down the hallway in Nero's direction but apparently hadn't seen him yet. The last two cultists were on the far side of the little room, a fair number of steps from Nero. They all likely possessed some elements of magic. Fortunately, he had a tool for that.

He drew his bone dagger in his off hand and the Mace of Molag Bahl in his primary one. The man with his back to Nero would never see him coming. The Daedra worshiper crept forward, crouch-walking as far as he could. His cloak dragged across the floor, whispering death as he came.

When he was within mere inches of the cultists he leaped to his feet, dashing forward at full speed. Without stopping, he buried his dagger in the lead cultist's back, leaving it there. The man fell forward, the handle of Nero's weapon protruding from his spine like a horn. Using his forward momentum, Nero smashed his mace into one of the other man's chest, using both hands to propel the massive weapon. The foe's ribcage shattered horrifically. The man flipped forward from the force of the blow.

The Imperial spun, slamming the butt of the mace into the temple of the third nearby cultist. The man fell back dazed, allowing Nero the room he needed to strike. Using an underhand thrust to propel the mace, the Daedra worshiper struck upward, slamming his weapon into the cultist's chin. Bone shattered and teeth flew. The man's head snapped sickeningly backward at an unnatural angle.

With one smooth motion, the Imperial retrieved Spellbreaker from his back, holding the ancient Dwarven shield before him. He cut an imposing figure in the dark.

The two surviving cultists dropped their daggers and flung hands forward. Each launched a gout of flame at him, magical fire that would grill an entire cow or would strip the flesh from a man's bones; fire that would melt steel and incinerate leather; fire that proved useless against Spellbreaker's ancient might.

As the flames began to tickle the shield, they faded away, vanishing like a puff of smoke in a strong breeze. The stone around Nero blackened, the air heated, but he remained untouched, mustache not even singed.

The looks of triumph on the mages faces vanished as swiftly as their magical fire. Nero strode slowly towards them, a wolf-like grin taking up his face. One cultist threw a lightning bolt at him. It likewise proved ineffective. He drew closer. One retrieved his dagger and rushed the Imperial. Nero caught the tiny weapon's strike on Spellbreaker, then shattered the man's skull with a counterstrike from his mace. Ignoring the brain matter that stained his breastplate, he approached the last man like a cat with a cornered mouse.

The mage's frost bolt was useless, ineffective. The Mace of Molag Bahl was not.

* * *

><p>Araena knew the old man with the long gray beard and matching robes would come. She'd seen it in her visions. She had not given Hammel and Lydia any particular thought since sending them on their way. Azura had shown the Nord returning, victorious. The Lady's visions were never false and the prophetess had no reason to believe this one different than the others.<p>

The old man moved like the wind, shouting in a strange tongue. His beard whipped behind him, robes rippling like the air he moved with.

She did not turn to face him, she remained on her knees, looking toward Azura's statue.

"I'm looking for a man." His voice was old and wizened, much like the elder who'd spoken it. "An exceptional man." He paused and Araena knew he was thinking of descriptives in his head. "He might not resemble such, but he is."

"You seek Hammel Greymist," she answered quietly, still not turning towards the gray bearded man. Taking down her hood with both hands, she finally rose to her feet, eyes still on Azura's image. "He has gone to complete a task for the Lady of Mystery. He takes with him his Housecarl and his courage."

The old man folded his hands into the sleeves of his robes, nodding sagely. "I must seek him out."

Now the priestess turned to face him. "You must not interfere with his task. He will return," she replied as she gestured towards the small straw pallet laying comfortably in her living area next to the fire she maintained for warmth.

Oddly glancing towards her, the old man stated simply, "You cannot keep me here against my will. I am far more than I seem."

Araena did not need magic to determine that. "I am aware. Yet I am not forcing any course of action on you." She turned away from the gray-bearded man. Turning her gaze towards Azura's image, Araena felt the prescience of the Lady. "I intend to save you time and wasted effort. Azura has shown me an image of Hammel returning to this shrine. That means, you will not find him before that, all your might notwithstanding. Yet he will return here." She left the rest of her words unsaid, once again, motioning towards the pallet. "There is rabbit on the fire, you may eat your share of it." Dropping silently to her knees again, the Dunmer folded her hands and returned to her meditations. The seven candles continued burning upon the alter, the sweet aroma of incense continued to drift past her nose. The old man did nothing for a moment. Then he took a seat by the fire and waited.

* * *

><p><em>It is beautiful, in a savage way, this land. Sadly, staining these snows with the blood of traitors and heroes is necessary to preserve her.<em>

Companies of archers were ready. Highly trained legionaries, local levies, guards pulled from their posts and battle-hardened mercenaries formed up his army, an impressive force. All this might against whatever soldiers Ulfric had stashed within Winterhold and without the small walls.

"Quaestor," Quintus ordered Hadvar quietly, turning slightly in the saddle to look the man in the eye. "You will repeat my commands to the men." Hadvar nodded, gripping his reigns tighter. "At my command, and mine alone, the archers will fire two volleys. Then I will signal the advance. The archers will fire three more flights as we move in, ensuring minimal return fire from the rebels."

Hadvar nodded and turned to face the men. Screaming loudly, Hadvar parroted his officer's commands to the men waiting. Quintus closed his eyes and prayed.

_Eight Divines, I am your servant. Watch over me this day, protect me, ensure the success of my cause. Father Akatosh, give me strength and courage. Mother Mara, watch over my men, that they might return to their families. Stendarr, strength our resolve, our cause is just; add your might to ours. Debellia, bestow your grace this day, that we are favored. Kynereth, sooth the winds and snows, that weather will not hamper us. Julianos, bless me with wisdom, that I may lead these men. Zaenanthar, watch over our equipment, that steel should not fail us. And if any man die this day I pray that Arkay will guide them to Aetherius and the great beyond. _

"Archers of the Empire!" Quintus bellowed, reprieve over, steel will returned, raising one hand above his head from all to see. "Loose!" Dropping his arm like a rock, he listened to the sound of arrows flying.

Hundreds leaped from their bowstrings; the noise almost deafening. The sky filled with a deadly rain, hammering down on Winterhold's defenses. Quintus saw several rebels on the walls fall, pierced through, most dropped below the defenses, hiding from the rain of death.

"Second volley, loose!" he commanded, repeating the arm gesture. A second fearsome volley followed the first, shooting over their heads towards the remains of once proud Winterhold.

Quintus breathed out once. Turning to Hadvar he asked him a simple question."Are you afraid Hadvar?"

"Yes," the Nord replied, his face a touch paler, voice slightly shaking.

"Stay with me, fight with honor and we will prevail." In one swift motion the Legate drew his sword. It rasped loudly against the sheath, gleaming for all to see. Rearing his horse and jabbing the blade towards the city, Quintus gave the command, "Soldiers of the Empire, Charge!"

_For death and glory._

He kicked the horse into motion, riding her towards the city. Hadvar did likewise and the army followed. Even as they moved, a third volley of arrows flew overhead, ensuring the defenders wouldn't stick their heads out.

To his front, the skirmishers advanced, forward troops armed with short-bows and light armor. Some begun peppering the defenders with their own arrows, launched at will. Directly to his right was the ram, a big, ugly tool of war with one unpleasant purpose; opening the gates. Around him, several units of men carried ladders, easily capable of breaching Winterhold's nine foot walls.

The world slowed to a crawl. Several brave Stormcloaks on the walls stood, returning beleaguered fire. Their hunting bows sung, shooting deadly songs at his men. A few skirmishers fell, pierced with well-placed shots. Right on time, the forth volley struck Winterhold, impaling some of those archers and driving the rest back.

They were close now, he could clearly make out the figures on the walls. He could see their blue-clad forms as his fifth and finally volley kept their heads down for that crucial moment. "Get the ladders up! Now!" He roared jabbing his sword at them, screaming at his men to move. "The ram! I want it knocking at the door!" He looked back up towards those walls and saw an unpleasant sight.

The bearskin covered Stormcloak captain had rallied some of his archers, and begun trading erratic fire with Quintus' skirmishers. All around him men exchanged arrows. To his left, a guard pulled from Morthal to help with the assault took an arrow through the neck and collapsed, gargling blood. On the wall, one of the Stormcloaks fell into the hoard of Imperials, pierced with several well placed shots.

The officer at that moment saw Quintus, despite the carnage around him, and gestured furiously. Quintus' plume marked him as an officer, for the sake of his own men, but sadly, sometimes the enemy caught on. Yanking a wicked looking hatchet from his belt, the captain hurled it towards the Imperial with all his might. At his sides, several archers directed a flight of arrows towards at the Legate, intent on cutting him down before the battle had even begun.

"Bollocks," he cursed, flinging himself from the saddle. The snow broke his fall quite a bit, but it still banged him up. Biting his lip, the Imperial drew blood. The arrows avoided him but sadly struck his horse. The poor girl went down shrieking, spurting blood like a fountain. Her whinying grated on his ears and tugged at his heart. He didn't have time to put her down. He did it anyway.

Retrieving his shield from the fallen beast, Quintus held it in front of him, pushing slowly forward. An arrow slammed into his shield, lodging itself in the sturdy wood and shaking his arm up to the joint. The ram had reached the gate, slamming into it repeatedly, despite a heavy battle. Bodies of Imperial soldiers lay scattered around it as the rebels fired from the walls above. Stragg had taken hold of one of the positions on the ram, throwing his entire Skaal might against the gate. A team of Imperial skirmishers was doing its best to provide protection for the ram crew but it mattered not. The gates were already cracking and Quintus had more than enough men to finish the job.

To his front, several ladders had been placed against the walls; his boys struggling to acquire any sort of foothold on-top of the barricade. The Stormcloaks had maintained strict control, pushing the ladders back and killing anyone who came within axe range. There was no sign of Hadvar, Quintus had lost him when he'd fallen from his horse and sadly he didn't have time to find him now. Someone had to lead the push over the walls or more men would die against them. There was only one person Quintus would trust to lead that charge.

Putting aside emotion and uncertainty, he charged for the nearest ladder. Another arrow made its place in his shield, sending a vibration running up his arm with the impact. A second arrow glanced off his cheek-guard, barely missing the tiny slit in his visor. Another close call for Quintus Decimus.

The ladder was before him. A Legionary sunk into the snow, more pincushion than man. One of his men went up the ladder before him, holding his shield above his head. He wasn't ready for the Stormcloak captain, who smashed his foot into the soldier's shield. The man lost his balance and fell from the ladder to the snows below. The fall wouldn't have killed him, but the two arrows that slammed into his back as he fell certainly did.

Quintus didn't think about what he was doing. He held his shield above his head to deflect arrows and his sword before him to try to stop kicks. His feet found step after step, it was a blur. "Follow me and take this damn city!" he roared as he climbed, hoping his charge would motivate the men to come up the ladders with him.

Without fully realizing it, Quintus made it to the top of the ladder, face to face with one of Ulfric's rebels. The Imperial stabbed the man in the chest before he could bring his pike to bare. Shoving the corpse into two of the advancing Stormcloaks, Quintus vaulted up and over the wall, landing on top of the barricade. Nearly slipping over a dead rebel, the Imperial raised his shield quick enough to block a sword blow. Deflecting the strike, Quintus returned one, slashing the man across the face with his blade. Striking the dying man with his shield, the Legate sent his body toppling over the wall, clearing a little more room.

Another man came at him, an old one. He was no soldier, merely a farmer armed with a pitchfork. The elder was livid, spittle flying in all directions as he howled, long stringy beard flapping with each thrust of his weapon. "Bastards! Turn-coats! Heretics! You'd come here and tell an old man who to pray too? For the sake of elves? I'll fight for my home! Come on bastards! I'll take you all on!"

He had heart but no talent. Quintus spun around, avoiding the pitchfork's thrust and removed the old man's head from his shoulders with a well placed blow. Even as the farmer died, a Stormcloak was on him, swinging a spiked club in both hands.

The Legate caught the strike with his sword, countering by bashing his shield, edge first, into the other man's face. His head snapped back, allowing Quintus to open his neck.

Then the captain saw him.

He was a huge man, shield and axe both bloodied with use, the bear cowl he wore almost snarling at Quintus, as if it was the physical embodiment of this man's hate. And hate it was, the captain burned with it, as if Quintus was responsible for the war, for the White-Gold Concordat and everything in-between.

The rebel didn't banter words, instead he rushed in with a roar. Bashing aside one of the legionaries who'd made it up the walls, he came right at Quintus. His axe rose and fell in a blur, his shield seemed to move everywhere the Imperial tried to strike. This man was a warrior, a veteran who'd ended his fair share of Imperial lives.

Quintus was no green lad himself. He wasn't new to combat or bloodshed, like the lad this rebel had so swiftly disposed of and he fought back. Blocking the axe strikes with his well-used shield, he slashed the man, drawing blood from a few light blows. They proved ineffective at slowing the beast of a man. The Imperial spun aside, narrowly avoiding a strike that easily would have removed his head, helm or no. The axe went clean into the barricade, cutting through several inches of pine. Ripping the weapon free with a snarl, the captain went at Quintus again, eager to see him die.

On the wall around him his men were gaining a foothold, Imperial and Stormcloak fought all around him, the gate shuddered violently, splintering before his eyes, but Quintus blocked it out. There was nothing but him and the captain.

One of the legion men charged the large nord from behind, seeing an exposed opening. The Stormcloak did not even turn. Snapping his shield backward, the captain caught the legionnaire unawares, smashing his face inward. Quintus hacked at his enemy, but the officer was quick, getting his axe in the way. Steel screeched on steel as sparks flew from the force of the blow.

Quintus was faster on the riposte. Striking low, before the man could counter, the Imperial's sword sheered clean through the Nord's knee. As the man collapsed, one limb short, the Legate stabbed him in the chest, twisting the blade as he yanked it free. The captain was strong and Quintus didn't want surprises.

As if waiting for the duel to complete, the gates shattered with a mighty blow of the ram, soldiers swarming into the city like locusts. Winterhold's fate was sealed.

That's when he saw Hadvar. The Nord was leading a unit of men towards one of the rebels not surrendering or running, Jarl Korir. The man was enormous and his armor shone. Without a helmet, he was clearly recognizable and this screamed of his defiance. Swinging his warhammer like a cyclone, the Jarl beat back the first man to come at him, crushing his chest like a pomegranate. Another man came and died. Around him, his guard fought and fell valiantly against impossible odds, but Korir, himself, was a madman, striking without fear, hair flying freely.

Hadvar went towards Korir to engage him and Quintus knew his friend was outmatched. Determined to help, the Legate moved forward until something caught his legs and he toppled forward, falling off the wall into Winterhold square. The Stormcloak captain had hurled himself at Quintus, running on his last vestiges of adrenalin.

Both men toppled, falling into the snow with a painful thud. The Imperial lost his shield in the process. Quintus' head rung, but his mind was clear. When the captain drew a dagger and stabbed at him, the Imperial caught it on his van-brace. Punching out with that fist, the Legate shattered his opponent's nose, pushing himself up. He opened the captain's neck with a well-placed sword blow. This time, Quintus watched the light leave the man's eyes.

He turned towards Hadvar but was too late. Korir swung the hammer low, catching the other man in both knees. Each were shattered under the force of the blow, throwing Hadvar onto his back. The Jarl of Winterhold raised the weapon over his head with both hands and the Legate didn't have time to cry out before he brought it down.

Quintus watched in horror as Hadvar's head exploded like an over-rip melon. A man he'd known, fought beside, joked with was gone in an instant.

His grief was smothered by white hot rage. Korir stood alone in the square, his remaining forces dead, fleeing, prisoners or fighting hopeless battles. He gazed at the tide of Imperial soldiers who'd completely surrounded him, daring them to rush him. Each Imperial in turn was unsure what to do, Korir was surrounded, but still dangerous and showed no sign of backing down. No one wanted to die at that point.

"Sovengarde awaits me!" he howled, throwing his warhammer over his head triumphantly. "You may kill me now, but I will sit with my fathers! The tales of my courage will long outlive the memory of your cowardice!"

"Not bloody likely," Quintus growled out, striding towards the Jarl, sword in hand. Snapping his fingers sharply, he waved several crossbowmen towards him. "Cripple the dog, now."

Realizing that he was about to be denied a glorious last stand, Korir surged forward, only to find half a dozen crossbow bolts strike him in his legs, arms and lower torso. Warhammer falling from his hands, the Jarl collapsed to all fours, cursing weakly. The circlet he wore tumbled from his head, more red than gold as it hit the snow.

The city fell quiet. Every party was staring in awe or horror at the proceedings. Pushing aside the gawking men, Quintus strode towards the fallen warrior, purpose evident. Korir reached feebly for his hammer but the Legate kicked it out of reach, slamming the handle of his shortsword into the Jarl's wounds. Korir howled but did not fall.

"Korir," Quintus ground out, voice flinty, "former Jarl of Winterhold, I charge you with treason in the sight of the gods and men, for aiding the rebel Ulfric Stormcloak and for rising against the lawfully placed emperor." Quintus ripped his helmet from his head, tossing it away. He wanted Korir to look into his eyes when he took his life.

"Titus Mead?" Korir interrupted loudly, "That puffed up dictator is no emperor of mine. He can't wipe his arse without an elf holding the cloth." He laughed, a strained smile across his lips.

Quintus hit him again, driving the proud man low. "You may be taken to Solitude and throw yourself on the rightful Queen's mercy, or you may die here, at the hands of her servant." Korir spat a mouthful of blood in Quintus' face in response. The Imperial wiped it clean with the back of his hand. "So be it."

Korir didn't fight physically, but his eyes glowed with hatred. "I want you all to see!" he roared with his last strength, "how the empire treats those who'd rather fight elves, then bend the knee to them! To fight for Talos and home!"

"I want all to see the fate of traitors and cowards so quick to abandon and betray an empire that helped them in their time of need!" Quintus screamed back, blade held in both hands.

Korir looked Quintus right in the eye with a gaze the Legate would never forget. "The Empire that helped Skyrim died with Martin Septim. Kill me and be done with it. You and your false emperor are no friend of mine." He closed his eyes and looked up to the sky, still defiant even in defeat, roaring his final words of the heavens. "This is how a Nord dies!"

With that, Quintus' blade rose and fell, taking the former Jarl's head.

* * *

><p>AN: Writing that assault was a challenge, but I'm pleased with how it came out. More large scale battles are still to come. Cheers and thank you for your continued support.<p> 


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